


Kitchen Nightmares

by DeadPoet



Series: The cake is a lie! [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - TV, BAMF Bruce, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint is a Brat, Food, M/M, Phil might be that kind of doctor, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1469413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadPoet/pseuds/DeadPoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is a world-known chef and star of the reality-TV-series <i>Kitchen Nightmares</i>, where he tries to rescue restaurants. His life is dull and full of bad food. Until Bruce  appears, who seems to be able to cook everything (oh so deliciously). If Clint had just known what he would get himself into, pining after this guys food, he probably would have curled up and never gone out again. There is good food now in his life. And 'dull' never seemed more far away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chicken Balti

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo...yeah. This is what happens after watching way too much Kitchen Nightmares. I am now somewhat in love with Gordon Ramsay and this little plotbunny got in my head. It's a mixture of Kitchen Nightmares and 'Knight and Day'. 
> 
>    
> It should be mentioned, that Bruce is no vegetarian in this story. I feel inclined to point that out, because it is somehow canon that he is but it would have made everything more complicated here. So, no veggi-Bruce. 
> 
>  

A professional kitchen is hell. It's something no one seems to get, but it is true. It's steamy, it's busy and most of the time, people are screaming at each other. It is like a war zone.  
Clint – personally – didn't get, why people started a restaurant without any idea what it meant. He was cursed to work with people who couldn't boil an egg but deemed themselves chefs. It was a disgrace was what it was and it made him ANGRY sometimes. A lot of times he wondered why he even did this to himself, but then he got an other restaurant back on track and people there started to be happy again and customers got what they paid for and he thought: Well. One nightmare at a time.  
 _Kitchen Nightmares_ had been on track for about three years now. It had been enough time to get to know the crew. He and Natasha – the make-over-specialist – had become friends and he even cooked for her, which was a rare thing for him to do. It was nice to have her there all the time. She got stuff done. No matter where: She got people to do what had to be done and redecorated or even rebuilt whole places over night. It was fucking amazing. On the other hand there was Coulson, the director. He had no idea about food but he fucking loved reality TV and he got every one motivated and he always had the right angles for the cameras and the crew. He could make it happen that you never even noticed the cameras and the people maneuvering it. It always felt naturally for Clint to just turn around and be able to address the people at home, because there would always be the camera that followed him personally. Clint respected Coulson, he listened to him and that was more than he had been able to say about any other producer or director he ever had to work with. 

Today had been exceptionally bad. Really bad. They were at the 'Sheherazade' an arabic restaurant, that out of some unfathomable reason also had pizza and steaks on his menu. The owner was a bitch and Clint was close to telling her exactly that. It was the night of the make over and Tasha had her team working their asses off and Clint thought about just waiting it out and then going back to the motel with her, probably finally asking if he could get a goodnight kiss. He thought that they would be good together, damn good. One of the few points that the tabloids were right about. But on the other hand...they worked. They were great together but there was no fire, no consuming need. Clint started to ask himself if he was just loosing passion for...well...everything.

„Barton? Oh, you're really still here. That's a surprise.“ Coulson stood in the door, looked down at him in that unique way he had. „You should be sleeping, you know. Lot of yelling to do tomorrow.“  
Clint tried a rueful smile. „It wasn't that bad, was it?“  
„I thought you would go for it and kill Katrina.“  
„I thought about it.“  
„And she thought about killing you. She had a kitchen knife in her hand at one time.“  
„Really? And you didn't get my sweet ass out of there asap?“  
„You have seen how bland her knifes are. You were in no real danger and it would have been quite the shoot.“  
„Jeez. I feel so safe with you around Coulson. So appreciated.“  
„You would safe your face. That's the important thing.“  
Coulson did his not-quite-a-smile thing, then he looked down at his clipboard. There was a lot of work to do, Clint knew. He could never really get how much Coulson really worked, what he had under control and what not but it was a fact that Coulson was the goddamn GOD of organization. He had the standing offer to work for American Idol and he never ceased to be annoyed by that. How could they have the _nerve_ to ask him to go to American Idol? 

„We'll be here till you get back, Barton.“  
„Really? That much to be done?“  
„We're not building a new house, but that's about it.“  
„Damn.“ There went his chance for a goodnight kiss.  
„Yes. So if you're still hungry, you should come inside, grab a bite with us and then go to get some sleep.“  
Grab a bite, huh? Clint's eyebrows went up. „So...what are we up for? You trying to kill us all with Spaghetti again?“

Grab a bite, his ass. Normally that meant that they wanted to get him to cook something, because he couldn't stand to eat whatever they put before him. He didn't _mind_ cooking for the team from time to time but he would have liked to be actually asked. Begging wouldn't hurt either. He enjoyed a good groveling.

„No, no. Tasha got Bruce to prepare chicken balti.“  
„Bruce?“ Clint tried to grab his mind around that name, but it didn't ring a bell. Huh. „Is that a friend of Tasha's?“  
Coulson shot him a look and cocked his head. „You mean, you have never seen BRUCE?“  
When Clint continued to just stare at him, mirth leaked in Coulson's gaze. Coulson had this fucking way to be deeply amused and being all polite and calm about it. Clint felt mocked by him. Constantly.  
„Well. Yes. He is a very dear friend of Natasha. Time for you to introduce yourself, I think. Come on.“

Clint stood up, his hands in his pockets and a sinking feeling in his gut. He didn't like seeing new guys who cooked. As a matter of fact he NEVER liked Natasha's flings. They were never more, not really. They were pretty and most of the time they were bland. Probably because Natasha herself was so UNBLAND, that she needed the contrast. Bland people normally weren't excellent cooks. Sometimes they were acceptable, but they never made anything worth the effort, really. And Clint hated to eat food that was not so bad that he could spit it out and not good enough to really enjoy. And he would have to be _nice_ to the guy, 'cause he was holding hands with Tasha.  
Great. Just what he fucking nee- Whoa. 

He stopped and stood stockstill, closing his eyes. The smell was...just...whoa. He had smelled something like that once in his life, when he had been down in Pakistan and...just whoa.  
„Is that....is that Bruce-Guy pakistani?“  
„He's from Ohio.“  
„Well, shit.“ It probably didn't taste half as good as it smelled but at least Clint could sit there and smell it and loose himself in memories of some good and honest food.  
They had new tables in the place already and Tasha and the other guys were sitting on a bench, looking hungry and sweaty. Tasha smirked at him and turned around. „Yo, Bruce! Chef Barton is joining us, so one more plate, if that's alright?“  
„Sure.“ 

The voice was pleasant enough. Deep. More a man than a boy than. Good for Tash. 

„So your new guy is a wanna-be-chef?“, Clint asked when he slid down on a chair Coulson passed him. Tasha crooked an eyebrow and then looked at Coulson, who just shrugged. „Not really.“, she said. „Bruce likes to cook.“  
Something was off with that answer, Clint just couldn't put his finger on it. He let it slide when he could hear the door to the kitchen open and a guy emerge with 6 plates balanced on his arms. He had to be a little bit smaller than Clint and he was definitely older. Probably near his forties. He had ridiculously curly hair and when he felt Clint looking, he smiled at him. It was an easy, quiet, content smile. „Hello, Chef Barton. So nice you join us.“  
„Yeah...sure...“ 

The guy put a bowl with curry down before Clint and then served the other guys. Clint noticed, that he wore worn out Jeans and an old button-down and trainers that probably had seen better years: They were green and worn and had horrible, new, red laces. Clint didn't think that anything that that guy had cooked could taste acceptable. He probably had just grabbed theses clothes at a second-hand-shop. If someone put so few enthusiasm in grooming when on a date with NATASHA ROMANOV, that didn't spoke well for preparing a meal.  
„Enjoy.“ Bruce took a chair and sat down, a little away from the table, his back to the wall. Hm. Rude. 

Clint shrugged, took a spoon and went for it. The first bite was always the worst, 'cause you never knew how bad it was going to be and – flavor exploded in his mouth. He stared at the bowl in disbelieve, while the curry was settling on his tongue. It was soothing and hot and spicy, but not too spicy and all in all it was....it was fucking heaven. He had NEVER eaten something like that, not since...well, there had been one curry in Pakistan that came close, but this was different, this was improvised with fresh stuff that was in season now, was in season in America and nevertheless it was a chicken balti, it really was and it was blowing his mind away.

He stared at Bruce, who was eating silently, like everyone else, but looked up when he felt Clint's gaze. They stared at each other, until Bruce said: „Everything alright?“  
„This“ Clint used his spoon to point at the curry „is FUCKING AMAZING. It's a revelation, it's...where did you learn to cook that?“  
„Pakistan, I believe.“ Bruce shrugged. „Glad you like it. Now eat, before it gets cold, hm?“ He spoke like the compliment meant nothing to him, but the tips of his ears had turned pink and he hid his face behind his curls the next moment. 

Clint stared at him, than at everyone else at the table. They were all eating, like it was nothing. He turned around to Coulson. „Why isn't anyone blown away?“  
„He cooks quite regularly for all of us. Every time we work this late actually.“  
Clint blinked, ate another spoon full of curry heaven and then shot a glance to Natasha. So...she had had that guy for a longer time? Where they like _serious_? And why had no one told him?  
He looked at Natasha, who was eating and chatting with Sitwell and he tried to think, but he was eating curry heaven here, so that wasn't really an option. It was like mouthgasm every time he took a spoon. When the bowl was empty he looked at it with dread in his soul. So that was that. Tomorrow he would have to go through with the horrible stuff, that they served here and he hadn't eaten much of anything someone else than himself had cooked in over a year and he felt hungry, but well. It had been a big bowl. It should be enough. 

„You want seconds?“ Bruce asked, standing by his side, suddenly. The guy was a freaking ninja on neon-trainers. Close up, he smelled like a good kitchen and like curry and a little bit of sweat.  
„Ahm...sure, yeah, why not.“  
He let Bruce take his bowl and stared at him, as he vanished in the kitchen. Then he looked at Tasha, totally ignoring the rest of the team. „Seriously, Tash, where did you FIND that guy? And why haven't you told me 'bout him?“ He then remembered, that he was supposed to hate the man and to find flaws within him. Not, that that was very hard. He wasn't sociable, clearly enough. Sitting on a chair, a bit away wasn't what you did at social gatherings. He also didn't know how to dress or how to comb his hair, while Natasha was THE most stylish woman he knew. Apart from Virginia Potts, but you couldn't count her. Not really. „Probably not in a boutique, that's for sure.“

The redhead stared at him and than at Coulson. „He really has no idea, has he?“  
„I don't think so, no.“  
„You're such an idiot, Clint.“  
„WHAT?“ Seriously, what was wrong with these people? Why where they smirking like that? He needed to know this stuff! He needed to know if Tasha had a boyfriend (cause the reporters would ask about that and he couldn't ask her to accompany him to the next event, Stark would be hosting and forcing him on attending. 

The ninja was back and put a bowl of curry heaven before Clint, who now took his hands in. Big, calloused hands with curry all over them. He probably wasn't that much for hygiene. Irgh. Clint stared down at the curry. Then he ate nonetheless. It was good. 

„Bruce, Darling, where did I pick ya up?“ Natascha had mirth in her eyes. „Clint doesn't know the story yet.“  
„Ahm...“ The guy scratched his neck and looked shyly at Tasha and then at Clint, averting his gaze instantaneously. “Ah....that was back in Calcutta. You...”  
“I batted my eyelashes and you were gone.”  
“No, not really.” Bruce laughed now. “I scared you, is what I remember.”  
“Well, you screamed and hit a table in front of me. It would have been hot, had you not seem like a mad man.”

Whait, whait, say whaaaaaaaaat? 

Clint stared at the scrawny guy who had...what? SCARED fucking Natasha You-name-it-I-show-you-my-black-belt-Romanov? And he had threatened her? And they were smiling about it?  
He looked around and saw people grinning and started to get the feeling, that he was the only one who didn't know this story. Well. If 'Bruce' made them dinner all the time it probably was...normal.  
“So....basically you two hit off right away?”, Clint asked sarcastic and tried not to show how much he enjoyed his curry.  
Natasha smirked and looked over at Bruce. “Opinion? I thought, you were _smashing_.”  
“And I thought you were there to kill me. But I liked you nonetheless.”  
“You liked me because of it.”  
There was a smile creeping up on Bruce's face and he turned his head away, pulled his hair and went silent. 

The guy was creepy. That story was too. And everyone seemed to get it. Everyone except for him and that told him that he had spent way to few time with the decoration team.  
He grumbled and ate his bowl. When he was finished he was full and a little bit in love with this dish. He could cook something like that, of course, but it was always different, when someone else cooked and...ah well. Didn't matter, probably. 

“Yeah, well, I need to go to sleep. Coulson said so. Get back to work, people and you two don't flirt too much.” He pointed to Tasha and Bruce, went up and away. He really didn't want to be there any longer.

When he was outside, he breathed in the air and the unknown city and just tried to relax. So Tasha had a new boytoy. Big deal. He wouldn't last, even though he could cook like a young god and probably had a wonderful restaurant somewhere. What did it matter, that she hadn't told him and that everyone seemed to know about this guy but him?  
He still had the curry linger on his tongue and he licked his lips to get the last bits of it. He really could cook. Well. Didn't make him a good person or an acceptable boyfriend for Tasha. And he just had made the coming day so much worse. Clint would have to survive on the breakfast at the motel (he wouldn't touch it, he knew it already) and the stuff at the restaurant they were trying to safe. He would starve to death. 

 

When he woke up the next morning, there was a plate on his bedside table, filled with still steaming pancakes, topped with hot cherries. Next to it was a note: _You looked like starving yesterday, so I am taking the liberty to feed you. Bruce._  
Clint stared down at the note. “Stalker.”, he mumbled. “Fucking, creepy, ninja-stalker.” The guy had SERIOUSLY come into his bedroom and put food down, like, a minute ago or so? What did he think he was doing? That was...that wasn't something you _did_.  
Or perhaps it was and Clint hadn't gotten the memo yet. Maybe Bruce gave breakfast to everyone. 

The pancakes looked delicious. And they smelled even better, than the curry had. 

“If he can make decent curry and pancakes, I am so hiring him for one of my restaurants...” Clint mumbled, put the fork into the pancake, placed the bite in his mouth and chewed. And chewed some more. And then he moaned. Because _seriously_.  
“Alright. He is hired. And if he can make crab cakes I'm gonna marry him.” Clint wasn't gay and he didn't want to get to feel the wrath of Natasha, but he was only human and this was freaking heaven on a plate. Made by a ninja-stalker with hideous shoes who was creepy as hell and not good enough for his best friend. Wasn't that a way to start a week?


	2. Staying Hungry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint got a mouth on him, that gets him in danger. All the time.  
> He also understands one thing about Bruce: The guy's CRAZY! Like: HOLLY SHIT!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and the bookmarks, folks, it's nice to know that you like it so far. :) Happy holidays to everyone!

“This is DISGUSTING.”, Clint told into the camera. He poked the wanna-be-risotto that looked like slimey goo that had come out of a donkey. “It's bland and the consistence is...icky. If there were such a monstrosity as canned risotto, I'd say this was canned. It can't get any worse, really.”  
Of course it got worse. He had also ordered a pizza margherita, crap cakes and tortellini with pesto rosso. For dessert there was nothing more than tiramisu.  
After 30 Minutes of wait, he tapped on the table, hummed and talked into the camera or just to himself while the camera was recording, all the while fixating the door to the kitchen. “Aaaaaaand here we are...30 minutes later....hungry and waiting.....I could starve in here, I think and there's just this awful wall to look at it. What color is that? Salmon? Who paints his wall salmon? I mean after WW I?”  
Sometimes he felt a little bit schizophrenic, just talking to himself but on the finished product it always looked like he knew what he was doing. For that, Coulson was his hero. And probably the camera-stuff too.  
“Uh, I think I may...yes, there's coming food for me. Hopefully.”  
The waiter smiled at him. It was all teeth and curly hair, artfully layed around his head. Clint tried not to flinch back. He liked curly hair (on girls) – what he didn't like was gay waiters, making eyes at him. He didn't like that with female waiters either but normally they were...better at it, normally. And at the moment, the curly hair reminded him to much of Bruce and his curry and the PANCAKES and...yes....  
“The tortellini with pesto rosso. I hope it's to your pleasure.”  
“You think it will be?”  
“....no. Sorry.”  
“Na, I didn't think so.” Clint looked at the dish in front of him. “It looks like someone bleed on an enormous amount of overcooked – is that a _bug_?!”

It was. “Oh my gooooooood.....look at this.” He put the bug on his fork, where it crawled around and put it in front of the camera. “It's aliiiiiiiive. Hey, Joey!” He called to the waiter, not knowing whether he should be crying or laughing. The guy with the horrible hair came back, nearly falling over his own feet. Oh dear. Clint knew that he was adorable and drool worthy (hey, you just had to look at him _and_ he was one of the best chefs of the world) but you didn't have to get so pathetic over it. Clint shot the guy a look, destined to let him drop dead. The waiter just blanched.  
“We need a second plate.”, Clint quirked. “See? I've got a guest.” He put the bug in front of the waiters nose. “It seems you served me Gisela's house. Yes, this is Gisela, my new friend, Gisela the bug, LIVING IN MY FREAKING DISH!”

The waiter blanched some more and started stuttering. “That...that's just not possible, Sir, I have no idea how...”  
“Yes, well, I CAN TELL YOU HOW! I probably shouldn't even be going in your kitchen, thanks to my poor heart. There are living BUGS in there and you all don't care enough to notice when one of them takes home on a fucking plate! I mean, really, where have your eyes been? Probably you should just take more of your time concentrating on your DAMN JOB than grooming this ridiculous mop of hair of yours! Curls? Really? YOU'RE NOT 12 ANYMORE, MAN, IT AIN'T CUTE! Now shoo! SHOO!”

He sighed and groaned, when the man was finally, FINALLY gone. Could someone just shoot him, please?  
“I so don't want to go in there...”, he mumbled. “I should probably take on a full-body-latex-suit just to not catch something.” He looked down on his plate. “I should probably throw up. I don't want to think about the bite I had of that Risotto.”  
When he finally DID go into the kitchen, it was worse, than he had thought before. There were bugs EVERYWHERE. And mold. There was some kind of sauce, that was COVERED IN FREAKING MOLD! He went into the bathroom to throw up then and when he came back, he screamed at the whole stuff, especially the cook. Irish bastard, that he was, all bulky and little pig-eyes. He looked like he ate a lot, but Clint didn't think, that it was the stuff out of this kitchen. It would have killed him years before. 

“YOU ARE A FAKE!”, he screamed at the guy – Tony, yes, Tony was it – who seemed to become bulkier. “YOU ARE A DISGRACE FOR EVERYONE WHO CALLS HIMSELF A COOK! IT WOULDN'T FREAKING STARTLE ME, IF I WHERE TO LEARN, THAT YOU HAD A DOZEN FOODPOISONINGS IN THE LAST WEEK! THIS IS....I AM AT A LOSS OF FREAKING WORDS, YOU FUCKING, ARROGANT, ASSHOLE!”

The bastard stared at him and put a finger under his chin. “YOU are the fake! Who are you to waltz in here and tell me how to do my JOB? I DON'T NEED YOU! MY FOOD IS GOOD!”  
“NO IT'S NOT! It's full of bugs! You could just serve the bugs! It would probably be better than that slime you deem risotto! Have you EVER eaten here?”  
“I eat here all the time.”  
“Well that's quite the obvious lie. You know why? CAUSE YOU'RE STILL ALIVE!”  
Clint wanted to fucking HIT the guy. And this idiot was restricting himself, you could see it. The goddamn little pussy. Worst cook of...well, just the year, sadly enough, but now he pussed out. He probably would never man up and RECOGNIZE what he was doing here.  
The little Irish shit huffed and then he said. “I really think we should talk this out. Outside. Just you and me, no cameras.”  
Clint grinned. That sounded like a good, honest fistfight. He needed that. He would punch that little shit in the solar-plexus and make him cry. That would be oh-so-good.

“Alright, big guy, come on. Let's have a nice chat.”  
Clint was furious enough to be oh-so-happy about the chance to totally punch that idiot in a bloody pulp. Well. He would smack him around a bit, make him humble again and then they would be able to do his damn work. 

The night was fresh and starry. Clint looked up and scratched his neck. It was a lonely alley behind the restaurant. He felt a little chill of anticipation, when the cook turned around to him. Well. What was the worst thing that could happen? That he himself would get a blue eye. And he really didn't think so. He was a very capable fighter. He didn't have as many black belts, as Natasha but who did?  
So. Self-assurance. His very own superpower. He got his cocky smile back and bounced on his feet.  
“So, big guy, what d'you have up your sleeve?”  
The cook grinned and pulled a knife out of said sleeve. Oh Fuck.  
 _Barton, how do you get in these kind of situations? Oh, that's right: YOU ANGER THE CRAZY PEOPLE!_  
“So what?” Clint huffed and crossed his arms. “You're pussy enough, that you can just stand up against me with a weapon in your hand? Bet you can't fuck your wife without artificial help either, hm? No wonder she looks so sour all the time.”  
 _Oh Barton, YOU DUMMY! SHUTUPSHUTUP!_

The guy sneered and then came closer. The way he held that knife...well he didn't know shit about cutting vegetables but Clint BET he knew how to cut throats. FUCK! Why did Coulson choose this shit hole? Had no one told them that the cook was a lunatic mobster? WHAT THE HELL???  
Clint bit his lips and tried to keep his eyes on the knife. The guy swooshed it at him and Clint took a good timed step backwards, averting it. Fuck. How did you disarm a guy? Why had no one taught him that? _'cause you ain't a secret agent, Barton. You're a former circus freak and now you're a chef. You get in these kinds of situations, 'cause you're a FUCKING IDIOT!_  
He could avoid two other slaps with the knife.  
“STAY THE FUCK STILL, YOU ARROGANT BASTARD!”  
“Yeah...not gonna happen, buddy....” Clint put his tongue out, took a step back and - _Oh. There wasn't a cat there before, right?_ Now it shrieked, Clint startled and stumbled backwards. He would fall, land on the ground and the maniac would fucking STAB him! Fuck. He didn't want to go like that, he didn't...  
He fell down, he felt the air swooshing by. _I am dying. I am dying in a fucking alleyway and I am hungry and -_  
-and someone caught him. He fell against a skinny chest, he smelled curry and earth and two hands closed around his wrists, held him up and then turned him around. Suddenly, Clint was standing behind a man and he saw the mop of curly hair and knew who it was. 

“Bruce? What...buddy, get out of-” Okaaaaaay...so his voice was still a bit shrieky from thinking that he had to die. Wonderful.  
Bruce turned around for one second, smiled at him and then faced the maniac again. The maniac who was pretty amused by now. Or at least seemed to be amused. That wasn't good. Amused maniacs were never good news.  
“So what now?”, the maniac asked. “The scrawny dude comes to rescue the princess? What, you gonna wrestle me buddy?”  
“I am not your buddy. And no, I won't wrestle you. Just...give me the knife, please?”  
Had he really just said 'please'? SERIOUSLY????  
“Ahm, Bruce, that is...just.... I can take him, you know? Go back inside and I'll handle this here.” _And I will get kiiiiiiiiilled.....why can't we just jump him together? Well, because Bruce looks like a kicked puppy already, one cannot force that guy to freaking FIGHT._

“He has a knife, Clint.” Bruce ducked his head. He looked afraid. It was all in the way his shoulders were hunshed and his hands were shaking a bit. And nevertheless he was putting himself between Clint and the maniac. Wasn't that sweet?  
 _Sweet? Really Barton? FUCKING SWEEET?_  
“I can see that, you IDIOT! That's why you should shuffle your skinny ass back to whichever hole you crawled out!”  
“No can do, chef.”  
And with that the guy just stepped forward. “Give me the knife. Please.”  
“Get AWAY you little PUNK!”  
 _Swoosh!_  
Worst noise EVER! Clint expected to see Bruce move. It was a lazy try on part of the maniac. He probably just wanted to scare Bruce away to get back at Clint. It should have been easy to stumble back and avoid that shit. But Bruce didn't try to avoid it. He stood stock still and the knife pierced his arm with a sickenig, squishy sound. Blood started to flow. Fuck. There was fucking BLOOD!

Even the goddammed cook seemed to be perplexed.  
“Dude...you've got enough now? Go away and I might let you go and lick your wounds, I don't have a fight with you dude.”  
“Give me the knife, boy.”  
“Bruce, I really appreciate the help and all, but guy, you're fucking bleeding!”  
“Listen to him, dude.”  
Bruce sighed, put his hand up to his face, as if Clint and the crazy cook (ANDREW! ANDREW! That was the freaking name of that screwface!) where totally not getting the point and being unreasonable, little kids. The blood dribbled down his arm and on his face, down his neck. Fuck, that was a damn lot of blood. His voice was bit rough and tired. “Give me the knife boy and then get out of here. You can leave it in my shoulder, I won't lose it. But go away now.”  
“Or WHAT?”  
“Or I might get angry. You won't like me when I'm angry.”  
“Yeah, sure.” Andrew laughed and then he stabbed at Bruce. Clint moved forward, wanted to pull Bruce back, wanted to do something, but the scrawny guy himself was way faster. He turned his body, but not away. He leaned to his side, brought his leg up in some kind of kick. It would have been good, had he kicked THE GUY! Instead, he....he worked his flesh on the knife.  
Andrew and Clint both just stared at him. Bruce put his leg down, knife inside, put his hands in his pockets and looked very sternly at the cook. “Go. Away. Boy.”  
This time, Andrew complied. “You are...you are totally NUTS!” He turned around and ran away, falling over his own feet.  
Bruce sighed and turned around, a little smile on his face. “Thank God. That could have become nasty. You okay, Clint?”

“...” Clint opened his mouth and closed it again. Ok. Alright. He had to say something intelligent now, he had to - “Dude, you've got a knife in your leg...”  
“Yes, I've noticed.” Bruce smiled at him and Clint looked at something he could say, because...well...SERIOUSLY!  
“Well...doesn't that...hurt?”  
“Yes. Very.” Bruce shrugged and scratched his neck. “I have...a difficult relationship with pain. And no I have to go back to the motel and look after this. Could you tell Coulson, that I -”  
“Whoa! Motel? Dude, you have to go to a hospital! You need a fucking DOCTOR and...like...surgery, you know? Someone has to pull that THING out of your leg!”

Bruce looked at him and frowned. “No.”  
“No?”  
“No. No doctors, no hospital. I can handle that myself.”  
Seriously? Was that guy nuts? He was bleeding like a pig and had a freaking knife in HIS LEG! And he told him that he wanted to go back to motel to tend to himself? HAD HE TAKEN A PUNSH TO THE FREAKING HEAD???  
Bruce stared at him and started licking the blood of his finger. He looked like it was just something that you did, like playing with the hems of a shirt. It was very repetitive, how a little pink tongue was sneaking out between his lips, licked over a fingertip or between two fingers, taking some of the blood with it, when retreating.  
“Yeah. Alright.” Wait, whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? _Barton, did you really just...yeah, great, that would be wonderful, that was just....did you REALLY just say that it was...oh you're so stupid, you're a fucking MORON!_

“I'll phone Coulson. No way I'm gonna let you walk alone.”  
Well, okay, he could work with that. Yes, that sounded reasonable. He could work with that. He thought. Yeah. Yeaaaaah.  
Bruce stared at him, his tongue out, to lick at the back of his hand. He frowned. Before he could say anything, Clint started babbling again. “You know, Tash would castrate me if I let her boyfriend bleed out in the open after he rescued me. And I have to phone the police, damn!”  
“...no.”  
“No?” _Eeeeeecho.....we already had this conversation._  
“No.” Bruce chuckled and started walking. “No police. And I am not Natasha's boyfriend. Come on, chef.”  
Clint frowned and followed him, not sure how to treat that statement. “Do you say that, because boyfriend is stupid word? Are you her man? Because...even though you are catching knifes with your flesh, she's more the man than anyone of us.”

Bruce chuckled and didn't answer him. That was just....  
“Friends with benefits? Boytoy? Lover? Are you her bitch, man? Gay minion? Sex slave? COME ON, man, work with me!”

The guy wouldn't answer him, he just started humming while Clint was phoning Coulson and received a lot of dangerous silence. Threatening, blood-promising silence. Ugh. Clint was in for a lot of paperwork, he could sense it.  
Bruce didn't seem to need his help. Clint thought about pushing it on him, but that just seemed...rude. The guy walked like there was nothing wrong with his leg and pressed a hand on the wound on his shoulder.  
Fucking martyr.  
Because Bruce wasn't telling him anything, Clint started to talk. He told him about other crazy shit that had happened in the show till then, how he had worked himself out of most of said shit and how the one time he had to defend himself 'cause someone wanted to fucking SUE him. Of course he had broken the nose of the asshole before, but he had had every fucking reason to do that. 

He talked more than he had in a lot of time and Bruce listened to him, hummed or chuckled at the appropriate moments, but apart from that he didn't respond.  
“You know...tell me something, man. ANYTHING!”  
Bruce looked at him. They were standing in front of the motel, Bruce had his hand on the doorknob.  
He looked back at Clint, cocked his head and waited for a moment. Than he bit his lip. It was a nervous gesture, totally unbecoming for a guy with a knife in his leg.  
He pointed up, at some point in the sky. “Satellites are moving fast enough, that one has to work with Einstein's theory or relativity. Nothing can accelerate to a velocity greater than that of light. But energy has to go somewhere nonetheless. So the mass of the object increases too when the velocity does. The faster you go, the heavier you become. Lots of people found that notion ridiculous. When they put the first satellites up, they prepared an off-switch. An off-switch for relativity.”

Clint stared at him. “Okay...that....was something. Can't argue with that. So...you're what? Some kind of brainy? Science nerd?”  
Bruce blushed and looked down. “No. No, of course not. Sorry, that was...that was stupid. I...I have to pull a knife out of my leg, excuse me.”  
He nearly ran inside the motel. Clint stared at the door and then ran in. “Wait..what...BRUCE! Wait up! I help you!”  
It was strange. Bruce didn't answer him any more, he just nodded and then went to one of the rooms. Uh. So...he ha an own room in the motel? That was....was the guy really traveling with Natasha?  
 _Of course he is. Not Tasha's boyfriend my ass._  
He didn't like the thought of that. 

He followed Bruce into the room, sat down and waited for something to do. Nothing came up. Bruce pulled his shirt off and threw it on his bed, while Clint sat down on the only chair in the room. The guy was...hairy. Clint stared at all that black, coarse hair on Bruce's chest, down to his navel. “Man...you've got curls everywhere, hm?”  
Bruce stared at him, blinked and then blushed. “Ahm....I....I have to take care of that....” His blush got worse and went over to the sink, washed the blood of his arm. “Ok. That looks good, just some bandages....” He turned his back to Clint, to wash the blood of his arm. His back was a disaster.  
Clint blinked and stared and couldn't quite put it together. There were scars. Lots of them. They went over his back, crossing each other. There were lines and points, cuts and burns. It was like some very sick kind of art.  
 _A difficult relationship with pain, huh?_

Bruce got a bandage out of his bag, put some green stuff on the cut and then started to roll a bandage around his arm. He used his free hand and his mouth, not once asking Clint to actually do something useful.  
He pressed his lips together to not just comment on that and really, the scars were giving him enough to think about. What had that guy gotten himself into? Or was he just into some very extreme masochistic stuff? He didn't seem like the type. And he didn't seem to have enjoyed the pain with the knife. The freaking, fucking knife in his leg....  
Bruce took some scissors in hand and cut a whole around the knife. He got a needle and yarn out of his bag.  
Clint coughed. “Ah...you....ahm...you....are you gonna go all Teddy-doc on your leg?”  
“5 stitches. Nothing special. Clint...could you....”  
“YES! Yes, absolutely, everything!”  
Bruce stared at him. His eyebrows went up.  
Clint blushed. “To help with the wound. Not...you know?”  
“No.”  
“I start to think, that I seriously hate you, man.”  
Bruce grinned. He shook his head and then pointed at the knife. “You have to push the wound closed, so I can patch me up and so not everything starts to get messy, when I pull the knife out, okay?”  
“Okay.” No? Nothing was okay! He was supposed to hold this guy's flesh together, while said guy was pulling a knife out of it and – whoa!  
“Warn me, man!”  
“Sorry.” Bruce smiled at him and let the knife fall to the ground, then he started with the stitches. He was efficient and ignored the fucking gallons of blood that were pouring over his hands. It was warm and gooey and Clint really just wanted to throw up.  
Bruce washed his leg and stared at the big hole. “I liked that jeans.”, he said.  
“Well I am quite sure, no one liked this carpet, so....whatever.”

Bruce smiled at him. “Thanks for everything, Clint. I think I should rest now. You ok?”  
“Yeah, yeah...sure...”  
And then Clint stood in front of a closed door and tried to process, why he had been thanked by the guy who took a knife for him.  
“Fuck.” He drew a hand over his face and decided to go out. He needed fresh air and...and maybe he could get the guy some flowers or something. Clint caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror and flinched. _Alright. Maybe shower first..._


	3. Shepherd's Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint is an idiot (nothing new about that), Bruce is not Tasha's gay minion and Coulson misses meeting Captain America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah. This took a while. Sorry folks, RL is a bitch right now. I already know how Tony will make it into the story, but I am not so sure about other characters. Do you have some favourites you want to appear? Suggestions are welcomed and greeted with cookies. And maybe tiramisu.

Coulson thought the story was gold. The cook didn't show again, which was probably for the best, taking into consideration....well. The next days he complained to Clint, that Bruce didn't want to do an interview, didn't want to take part in the show. Coulson complaining contained looking at Clint. All the time. He didn't look different than usually, but Clint could FEEL the moping. He tried to ignore Coulson. He really, really did.   
Finally, when they had the last day at that irish piece of hell, Clint turned around to Coulson who was looking at him, a clipboard in his hands.   
“Look, man...TALK WITH HIM. He came after me, he got my sweet ass out of there, I don't know why I am the guy to force him into giving you some goddamn speech to make this the special episode of the season. I don't even know, where he is at the moment! Or why he is staying at the same motel as us but not in the same room with Tash. Seriously, is that some kind of weird marriage-stuff?”  
Coulson looked at him. “I don't think so, no.”   
“NO! That is also his favorite word, you know? Maybe that's the reason he's telling you no.”  
It didn't help. Coulson was moping and Clint was sure enough, that he would mope for eternity because he somehow deemed this Clint's fault. It wasn't. It wasn't his fucking responsibility to talk Bruce-the-ninja-on-neon-sneakers into talking about his stupidity-slash-heroism.   
Bruce with the scars on his back. Bruce with the little, lopsided smile, who didn't seem to realize that it was fucking WRONG to have a knife in his leg. Bruce who had a special relationship with pain.   
Clint mumbled to the camera after the break was over. “Believe me, a moping director is NEVER a good thing. At least not if he's moping Coulson-Style. This has to be worse than the disaster of spring '02 when I refused to kiss the ground, Captain America might have walked on. Totally different show back then, but well. Coulson and I kinda sticked together, even though he's a moping bastard that is totally gone in hero worship for an amnesic, scrawny, little guy with a microphone. Tell you, I'm glad, they didn't offer him any job with Captain America. He would be gone in a second and we would all crash and go down. Where IS everybody?”  
Clint looked around. No waiters, no chefs, no freaking owners....and despite his very own camera there was no one around.   
“What the hell? Guys, we should prepare for relaunch....you're killing meeeeee.....”  
It was the scent that was getting him to the back of the kitchen. Tasha was sitting there and looked at him with raised eyebrows.   
Clint looked right, looked left and then looked at Tasha again. “Sooooo....you were left behind when everyone decided to move west?”  
“We lost the waiters.”   
“We...we what?”  
“We lost the waiters.”   
“That....would explain why SOME people are missing, but...”  
“Then the owners flipped out, the headchef declared her love for the guy preparing burgers across the street and the sous-chef's kid seems to own rats and let them breed in the cellar.”  
“...”  
“Yes. Coulson _did_ jump around like Rumplestilzkin. He's totally happy and totally furious at the same time.”  
“Coulson.”, they said at the same time. They would never again work so good with someone. Coulson treated them all like they were his family. Well. And then they treated them, like they were in the army and this was boot camp, but it got the job done.  
It still didn't explain, why Tasha was still here. When he gave her the look, she rolled her eyes and pointed at the oven. “Bruce made shepherd's pie, before everything went to shit. You know, while you had your break. But then he had to go and I am in charge of getting it out of the oven.”  
Clint knew that he had to look half starved at these words and he didn't care. Not. One. Bit.   
SHEPHERD'S PIE! Made by Bruce, it was...oh, he was in for a treat, he knew it.   
“Alright, this is PERFECT!” Clint grinned and stared at the oven, waiting for the dish to be done.   
Tasha looked at him, a perfect eyebrow raised high. Clint ignored her and turned to the camera. “So, we have a lot of emergencies going on right now and – for once – I am not involved in ANY of that. But in the meantime a friend of mine prepared a dish and I'll use that opportunity to show you what a proper dish looks like and that I indeed do enjoy other people's cooking. There were a lot of tumblr-posts declaring that I hate EVERYTHING and that's just not true. I just hate bad food.”  
Clint waited for the 'bing' and then put the shepherd's pie out, put glasses and ginger ale on the counter and then digged in, ignoring everything Tasha might do, because, well, he was in goddamn HEAVEN. This was just so good, so woooooooooonderfully good.  
“Clint....”  
“Yesch?”  
“We can't use any of that footage, you know?”  
“Whoasch? Why?”  
“You're making sex noises.”  
“Do not.” He couldn't help but groan nevertheless, when the flavour exploded on his mouth. “It's just so....creamy....and....mmmmhoaaaahw!”  
“See? We can't show you moaning like a porn star, while white sauce is drippling down your chin.”  
Clint tried to keep some of his dignity by not dignifying that with an answer but it probably didn't work out that well, since he was trying to get every last bit of deliciously meat-sauce-cheese-mix of the fork and into his mouth.   
Natasha snickered. When Natasha snickered, something was deeply wrong. Like: Clint was out without pants or something like that. He looked down, just to check. No, everything was fine. Pants were there.   
“You'd blow Bruce for a filet mignon, wouldn't you?”  
“If he'd put some tiramisu on his cock...”, Clint quipped back. If Natasha wanted to make him uncomfortable, she would have to work harder. He wasn't gay and it were just words. It wasn't like he would ever be imagining something by it. And...well. No, no he wasn't! Damn it, now he was. He was way to imaginative and Tasha KNEW that! He groaned. Splendid. Hadn't he enough problems already? He really didn't need THAT picture in his mind when he was talking to Bruce the next time. IF he were talking to Bruce any time again. What did he know? And Tasha shouldn't encourage his imagination making him uncomfortable! They were talking about _her_ boyfriend for God's sake! That couldn't be really...well.... “You sure, you should make jokes about your boyfriend getting oral pleasure by some guy?”   
“You're not some guy and Bruce isn't my boyfriend.”  
“Yeah...sure.” Clint's eyebrows went up. “So what's he then?”  
“A friend. Just that.”  
“A friend...”  
“Yes. I don't even know his surname, Clint.”  
“Sure. So why is the guy living in our motel and cooking at our sets, hm?”   
Natasha smiled and looked to the camera, that was still put on them. Clint frowned and followed her gaze. “Shit, I totally forgot about that....just to be clear: Dear Bruce should never see that footage, alright? Just...delete it or whatever.” He waved a hand and turned back to Tasha, who was by now deeply amused. It showed in the way her lips did not curl.   
“You are such an oblivious idiot, Clint.” She leaned back, helped herself to a fork and stole some of Clint's dinner.   
“Hey!” He glared at her and put his plate on his legs, where it should be secure. “Care to tell me, why I am an idiot now?”  
“Nope.” This time, she actually smirked even though it never got to her eyes. “Far too amusing for that. I'm waiting for you to figure it out in your own time.”

~*~*~*~

Natasha was a mean bitch. BITCH! BITCH! BITCH!  
What the hell? What was it that he had done to wrong her? It was a damn secret and he didn't _like_ secrets. Not. One. Bit.  
What he did like was shepherd's pie and chicken gambit and pancakes and for three days now he had been fantasizing about the bliss that had to be a tiramisu made by Bruce-the-curly-haired-devil.  
He waited for something. He waited for Bruce to appear, for the smell of delicious food but that just didn't happen any more. The damn bastard seemed to be gone now, that Clint REALLY did want to talk with him and ask him if he knew what was so damn funny – and if he could make him tiramisu.  
It started to become pathetic, but Clint was hungry. They had a whole week of disasters at a little italian place in San Fran. They started with Clint throwing up in the disgusting men's room (that was – tragically – more hygienic than the kitchen ) and ended with pizza that was barely edible. (Edible because it was his recipe and _barely_ because they managed to get some pizzas out in a nearly raw state.)  
No sign of Bruce. No pancakes in the morning. What was that about? He wanted his damn pancakes! And....and he really thought that they should talk. About stuff. Like....what were these scars about? Clint wasn't nosy. Not normally. But FUCK! What had happened to the guy? You shouldn't show people a back like that and NOT suppose that they would eventually start asking questions.  
Clint took a break, sitting down on one of the new banks. Relaunch-Night was over, everyone was satisfied. Well, more or less. He didn't believe they would survive him leaving, but he liked the waiters and he knew that they would be able to get better jobs when the show aired.  
A guy sat down across from him. Clint looked up and frowned. Blond hair, fragile build, a baseball-cap and dark glasses. “Not giving autograms now, Mr CIA.”  
“Not really wanting one.” The guy put the glasses down and put the cap away and...well...  
Clint blinked at him. “Wholly crap! Did Coulson close his eyes and wished really hard?”  
The guy looked puzzled. “I...don't follow.” He put his hand in front of him, an offer to shake it. “Steve Rogers, Sir. Nice to meet you.”  
“Yeah, I know who you are. Freaking face of the country, _Captain America._ ” He shook the hand never the less and noticed how the kid blushed. Well, kid. The guy was thirty years old, but he looked like 18.  
“That's...I didn't choose that name.”  
“Yeah, you're all just for the news and the soldiers and yadda-yadda. Doing the good deeds, I know. What the hell do you want from me? Catering?”  
Steve Rogers – a.k.a Captain America, the world's most renown reporter – rose his eyebrows at him. Uh. Clint got the feeling that the guy wasn't a fan.  
“I am here for Bruce.”  
Clint blinked. Yeah. He hadn't thought that THAT was, what would be happening. But that was fucking Captain America in front of him, who probably couldn't lie for the life of him. And he was here for...Bruce. Bruce. His neon-trainer-pancake-ninja.  
“Bruce.” Clint rose his eyebrows. “Scrawny, curly hair, totally insane?”  
“Yes, that sound's like him.” Captain America was very stiff and looked at him like he was some kind of enemy he was judging. Wow. Mr American Sweetheart came in and wanted to get Clint's source for pancakes. There hadn't been any pancakes in the last few days, but he still had his hopes up, he really did.  
“Yeah, haven't seen that guy in quite some time. You won't find him here.”  
“I do believe, I will.” He leaned forward, his face scrunched. He looked like the fucking embodiment of a petuliant teenager. “I was at the station and people were talking about a man saving you by catching a knife in his leg.”  
“Saving is a bit of a stretch.”  
“It sounds like Bruce.”  
“Know him well, hm?”  
“Thought I did.” He smiled. It made this little boy seem like he could bite through steel. “This incident took place just a week ago.”  
“If you say so. Stuff happened since that. Interesting stuff.”  
“More interesting than someone catching a knife for you?”  
“I lead an interesting life, Cap, what can I say?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. He was getting defensive and he didn't give a fucking dime. Even if he DID know where Bruce had gone too, he wouldn't have told that guy. He wasn't going to take Bruce away from Tasha. And he wasn't going to take away Clint's potential source for delicious pancakes. YES, he wanted his pancakes back. He really did. He did not know what he had done wrong to no longer deserve his pancakes.  
Maybe Bruce was at his job. He had to have one. Clint could have asked Tasha of course, but he wasn't quite there yet. He was hoping for his pancakes to magically appear. Or curry. Oh, he would love some curry. Damn it, he was getting hungry.  
“So...you're going to tell me, that you haven't seen Bruce in a while and can't tell me where he is?”  
When Clint grinned and put two thumbs up in an exaggerated manner, Rogers rose his eyebrows and then looked at him deeply, clearly annoyed. Oh no. Clint had annoyed Captain America. There probably was a special corner of hell for people like him. He felt oh so bad.  
“Are you thinking me stupid, Barton?”  
Clint did. They guy was a joke, he was a goody-two-shoes, who was all about making America a better place and looking out for the soldiers and yadda-yadda. He was just in this business, 'cause he was too sick to get enlisted and his best friend was missing in action for a decade now. Everyone knew the story, whether one wanted to or not. He probably didn't even had vices and had never gotten laid in his life even though he had fucking GROUPIES.  
“Of course not, Cap'.”  
“Right. Do you think me stupid, Bruce?” He turned his head. “I GAVE you these shoes, you know?”  
Clint turned his head too, looked at the camera, the one that was always following him. From the guy behind you could see his baseball-cap and the lower part of his body. Clint looked down and saw worn, ridiculous neon-green trainers with red laces.  
He gulped. Natasha was right: He was such an idiot.  
There was a deep felt sigh and then the camera was put on a table. Bruce looked at them, pulled his hair and shuffled his feet. He stared down, just shooting one or two shy glances up. “I remember, Steve. Hi.”  
“Hi Bruce. You heard why I am here?”  
Curly-ninja sighed, scratched his neck and then obviously decided to look at Rogers. He seemed tired to the bone. “I am not coming back, Steve.”  
“Yeah, that's what I not understand. Why, Bruce? We were good together.”  
“It's not about you, it's about me.”  
Waaaaaait a minute.... Clint stared at Bruce – who was his fucking camera-man and how had he been able to not know this? – and tried to get that in his head. Was he...like.... “So it is gay minion after all?” And he went out with Captain America? Seriously? And the guy came here to get him back? He hadn't even known, that Captain America was gay, because seriously, that was just...ugh. It had started to be kind of an illness around here, especially in the TV-business. If the Captain lured Bruce away, there would never be tiramisu. Clint WANTED that damned tiramisu. He had EARNED that damned tiramisu. Somehow. He had been humiliated in front of the guy and – uh. Tiramisu. Chatting with Tasha. About tiramisu. And...paying for it in an oral way....and Bruce was his camera-man....  
Clint groaned and buried his head in his hands. SHIT! No wonder, that he...well....had been GONE for a time. He wouldn't have wanted to...uh, fuck...fuuuuuuuuuuuck....he would never....  
“Look, man, your junk is save, alright?”  
Cap and Bruce turned and stared at him, stopping the discussion, they had been having and that maybe he should have listened to.  
Captain Fucking America rose his eyebrows and then looked at Bruce. “You...want to tell me something?”  
“....I don't know?”  
“Look, I MEAN it, dude! Tasha and I were just joking, you see? I won't pay you with blowjobs for food, I am sorry I said I would be doing that, didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, just give me the damn tiramisu, alright? On a plate. Preferably. If you want to put it in a cup, I'll take that too.”  
Captain stared at him, looking like he wanted to run away. Bruce on the other hand started chuckling. He put a hand over his mouth to hide it, but it had been there and it made him younger and...well, _cute._. Clint could think him cute. Like a cocker spaniel. That was alright, hm?  
“Bruce...”  
“No, Cap', no worries.” Bruce sighed and looked at Clint, ruffling his own hair. “I never thought, that...I could tell, that you were joking. I am not an idiot, chef. Even though that was mean by Natasha. And no again. I am not her gay minion. I am her friend and that is that. Maybe not even that after that talk. She was mean. I don't take well to that.”  
“Tiramisu?”  
“I never made tiramisu before.” Bruce looked at him, a little bit puzzled. “You realize, that I am not a chef, right? I am the camera man.”  
“I am sure, you make a hell of a tiramisu. Give it a try. For me.” Clint liked the fact that he was the center of Bruce's attention and that he had taken that place so damn easily. He wanted to poke his tongue at Rogers. _Suck it, Golden Boy, I am the teacher's favourite!_  
Bruce smiled at him, like he was endulging him but liked it. Like one did with a favourite younger sibling. He tugged at his own hair, like he wanted the smile to go away, force it away with a bit of pain. He kept on smiling, even though he looked exhausted. It was kind of endearing.  
“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease? Come on? One little tiramisu? I can TELL that you would make one hell of a tiramisu.”  
Bruce sighed, but the smile didn't leave his face. “No offence, chef, but you're a brat.”  
“Ah, but a charming one. Who'll get a tiramisu?”  
“Excuse me, is tiramisu a euphemism for anything?” Rogers looked from Clint to Bruce and back and then concentrated on Bruce, taking his hand between his. “You know that I don't care whether or not you're gay, right Bruce? Just come back.”  
“It's not a euphemism, Cap, it's a dessert. And it's delicious.” Clint clapped the man on the back and leaned forward. “So. Bruce said, he won't come. We're keeping him. He's ours now. You have to go get yourself your own cook.”  
“He's not a _cook_!” Rogers looked at him, like he had just offended him on some level.  
“Well, not with that attitude of him. Seriously Bruce, T.I.R.A.M.I.S.U. There are tons of recipes on the internet. There are 5 different recipes in one of my books.”  
“Then why aren't you doing it yourself?”  
“BECAUSE IT IS NOT THE SAAAAAAAAME!” Clint whined, he knew it but he wasn't ashamed of it. Not much. All he wanted was a bit of love! Well, love of the sugary kind, okay? HE NEEDED HIS SUGAR! He leaned over the table, nearly lied down on it and put his hands on Bruce's, going for his best puppy-eyes. “You said yourself that I need to eat more. You said you'd feed me. You wrote it on a note. That's like a contract, you know? I demand feeding!”  
Bruce stared at their intertwined hands. He blinked like he wasn't really sure what was happening here. Then a smile was tugging at his lips and the tips of his ears went red. “Okay.” It was so quiet, that Clint couldn't be 100% sure that it really had been there but he would go with what suited him the most. And that was: Bruce was making him tiramisu. It was a wet dream come true, so to speak.  
“PERFECT!” He grinned at Bruce, jumped out of his seat and dragged him up at his sleeve. “Come on, there's everything you need at the kitchen. I'll walk you through it.”  
Bruce kind of smiled at him, all wry and unsure and then looked at Rogers and saluted. “Sorry, Captain. Duty's calling.”  
Clint forced himself to not ask Bruce any questions about that. Because, well. It wasn't like he needed to know what was going on between him and Mr American Sweetheart, right? Or why he wasn't working for him any more and...well. He also tried to not feel Bruce's pulse quickening. But he kept his hand around the guy's wrist, so it was hard to miss while he was dragging him to the kitchen, where some people were still cleaning up. When they were there, Clint kind of noticed that this was awkward. Like...really awkward. He gulped, let go of Bruce's wrist and sat down on the counter. He would just ignore that. Pretty good idea.  
“So...you have to make coffee first.”  
“Coffee.”  
“Yes, coffee, young padavan. Strong coffee. And you have to choose some liquor to mix it with and then you put the biscuit in it.”  
Bruce looked at him for a moment, like he was waiting for something else. Clint held himself extraordinarily still. After two minutes, Bruce chuckled and leaned forward to ruffle his hair. “You're such a brat.”  
Clint wanted to object to that. He was thirty years old and he was a world-known chef, but Bruce's finger were calloused and warm and gentle and he somehow was right at that moment, so Clint just shrugged and grinned at him. “It is part of my charm.”, he said.  
“A small part.”, Bruce agreed and put his fingers together. “Tiny, really. You need a microscope to find it.”  
He pulled his sleeves up, revealing tanned, hairy arms and started preparing coffee.  
It was...cozy somehow. Clint told him what he had to do but sometimes Bruce cocked his head, thinking things through. He nibbled on his lips then and did something a bit different and Clint didn't call him out on it. He also didn't call him on the fact, that he had a lot of burns on his arms or that at some point he got cream in his hair and on his forehead. He looked adorable dorky and a lot younger than he probably was. When he put the finished product in the freezer, they were alone in the kitchen and Bruce was humming something, cleaning up. Clint needed a moment to recognize the themesong of the show.  
“Dude...you don't hum that.”  
“Why not? I like it. I like the whole show. I also liked the show before that.”  
“Hell's kitchen, hm? Yeah, that was pretty -”  
“No. The one before that.”  
Clint blushed. “Ahm...what...there wasn't a show before that.”  
Bruce grinned and came closer, something sparkling in his eyes. Something mischievous. He leaned in, put his hands on the counter on either side of Clint's thighs. “Oh yes, there was.”  
Clint's heart was beating frantically in his chest and he gulped, leaning back to get away from the mischievous grin on Bruce's face. The guy was enjoying this way to much and normally NOONE knew about the other show and...well. He wanted it to stay that way.  
“So...you and Captain America, hm? Big secret gay romance? Must say, I am surprised you haven't broken the skinny kid in two. Whatever you're into, I think, but all that vanilla would make my teeth rot. He probably looks like a girl from behind though. Makes things easier, hugh?”  
Bruce frowned, the glint gone. He stood up and put his hands in his pockets. Clint tried to pretend that he didn't like it way better before.  
His lips thinned and Clint was thinking that he wanted the other expression back, the mischievous Bruce. This...he felt bad.  
“Right. Whatever, chef. You know where the tiramisu is.”  
With that, Bruce turned around and left the kitchen. Clint felt like a dick and didn't know why. 


	4. Tiramisu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint hates Coulson. And he has every goddamn right to hate him.

Clint didn't really know what he had done. Well. Maybe he did know. Maybe he had been a dick. He did that, he knew that. There hadn't been any pancakes the next day and when Clint talked to Bruce behind his camera, he hadn't gotten any answers. Well. He hadn't talked _to_ Bruce. He just hadn't known what to say, so he had spoken with the guys at home, like he always did, being Americas most loved asshole, but... Well. Bruce could have answered him nevertheless. There had always been the possibility at least. It would have been the nice thing to do, at least in Clint's books. 

Clint managed one day, where he was cranky with everyone. More cranky than normally, really.   
He screamed at the chef but really, he did that all the time. She should be fucking able to manage her new kitchen, she should be fucking good enough to not get raw chicken out. So yeah, maybe there was that one moment, where he had leaned forward and screamed at her, that she should just put what came out of her ass on the plates, because there wouldn't be that much difference and that she was a stupid cow who would do anything for her two minutes of glory AND DID SHE FUCKING THINK THIS WAS GAME???

He screamed all the time. It was his thing. That he had hit the table afterwords and put a WHOLE in it, that had been, what had been upsetting for everyone, he fucking knew it, but the bitch had driven him insane and he had just wanted to hit SOMETHING and to scream some more and he had wanted to run his head against the wall until it was fucking bloody. 

After the service was over and everything cleaned out, Clint sat down with the tiramisu. He ate until he wanted to puke and then he ate some more. It was fucking delicious and at the same time it tasted like ash in his mouth. 

He felt someone looking at him and made a point of not looking up, just forced an other spoon full of tiramisu down.   
Clint didn't know, who he had been hoping for, but when Coulson sat down across from him, he felt sad and relieved at the same time. He looked down on his tiramisu and thought about trying to force another portion down but his stomach informed him, that he then really would be throwing up.   
A fork appeared in his line of sight, trying to get to the desert. Clint growled, looked up and cradled it close, so Coulson wouldn't be able to steal from him. “This is _mine_!”  
Coulson rose his eyebrows. “You ate all the rest already?”  
“What if?”   
“Glutton.”  
Clint growled again. Coulson could judge as much as he wanted, but this was _his_. 

The man just smiled, leaned back and played with his fork. After five minutes of silence, when there should have been the spanish inquisition on him, he finally grumbled and looked up at Coulson, who was sitting there, patiently, smiling and so fucking self assured. Clint HATED him at that moment.   
“WHAT?” He snarled it and he hated how he sounded like a petulant child, so he forced another bit of tiramisu down. His fork tapped an irritated rhythm on the bottom of the bowl. 

Coulson just sighed and leaned back, his hands on his knee. “Don't fall in love with Bruce, Barton.”  
Clint stared at him. After a few moments he said: “Ha. Ha.” What. The. FUUUUCK? Had Coulson freaking LOST it? Clint had always liked Coulson's quiet, teasing kind of humor. It had felt like the good kind of an older brother.   
Right now Coulson looked at him like he really was the older brother and couldn't believe why he had to put up with such stupidity.   
The guy sighed and closed his eyes. “Well. At least you're still cute, that has to be good for something.”  
“Coulson...I am _not_ a freaking fagot, alright?”

Coulson just looked at him. He looked, basically stared, totally calm and without any trace of a smile on his face.  
Clint tried to stare back, but he started to feel ashamed and he didn't even know why, so he crossed his arms and pouted.   
“You're better than that, Barton and we both now it.”  
Barton now was it, huh? Clint flinched again and shrugged and forced himself to look at the man, because he was in the goddamn right here, okay? “Well, you're telling me that I shall not fall in love with _a guy_ , Coulson. I think I should put this straight for you: I. Am. Not. Fucking. GAY! I can cook, alright, and I like purple. Doesn't mean I like dicks, so fuck you.”

Coulson sighed, scratched his head and nodded. “I brought it up, because you like his food, he takes care for you and he is a very calm and self-assured person. Qualities that might lure you in, knowing you. I also know your ex-girlfriends and he shares some of the physical traits you seem to prefer. And these are things that might make you forget some of your preferences. You are not an 0 on the Kinsey-scale.”

“Anyone ever told you, that you say a lot of bullshit?”   
Coulson chuckled, stood up and leaned forward to whisper. “No one ever dared in earnest. No one intelligent enough to have been worth my while anyhow.”  
Clint shivered. The thing was: He believed Coulson. The guy was all gentle smiles and soft words but right now he really had that look and body language of someone you didn't want to cross. Clint asked himself whether or not Coulson had ever killed someone. 

The man nodded and turned around, walking away. Apparently he was satisfied and Clint thought that he should just let the guy go and tug himself in, breathe and be happy that he hadn't been slapped or spanked for disappointing him.   
Naturally, he called after him: “Hey, Coulson!”  
He turned around, face all gentle, his eyebrows raised questioningly.   
“Why shouldn't I go into happy gay pining after our very own cocker-spaniel with the golden palate?”  
Phil hummed and shrugged. “Because he is dangerous and I don't want you getting hurt.”  
Clint stared at him and stayed there staring, long after Coulson was gone. He thought of Bruce with his doe-eyes and soft demeanor. He thought of his scared back and the fact, that he had caught a knife in his leg but never really fought back. That he had a 'special relationship with pain.' 

Clint snorted. Coulson obviously had it completely wrong. 

 

~*~*~*

 

Clint didn't have a plan exactly. He just knew that he had to find Bruce, talk with him, make this whole thing right again and maybe clear it up. He didn't like the thought of Bruce hating him or....well, hate was probably too much. But Bruce had had this look on his face, like...like Clint had let him down, had disappointed him. 

Clint didn't want the guy looking sad, that was all. Damn puppy-eyes. 

So Clint hadn't known exactly what to do to apologize, so he had done what he normally never did: He had cooked for the guy. He had made a tiramisu, just a small plate. He had used gingerbread and had put cinnamon in it. Even though christmas was a long way off...nothing said: Hey, I'm likeable! more than something christmassy.

He didn't really expect to find Bruce in his room in the motel, but there he was, sitting on his bed, reading a book, looking all innocent and nice. He looked up, when Clint came in.   
“Chef.”  
“Camera-dude.”   
Bruce cracked a smile at that and Clint decided to just jump in, before he started to lose his courage. “So, guy, I'm sorry for whatever I said to make you unhappy, see, 'cause I think you're a nice person and you are KILLING me, when you put on these damn kicked-puppy-eyes and I also I am NOT falling in love with you, got that?”

Bruce stared at him, blinked, opened his mouth and closed it again. Than he put his book down carefully and raised his eyebrows. “So....okay. Is this a thing we do now? Do you need more tiramisu?”  
“Oh, actually...” He presented the container and a fork. “Tadaaaaa! For you. Christmassy. Like me again? And before you decide you should know that I normally don't cook for other people without getting paid for it.” 

Bruce again blinked and then he blushed and put a hand on his face. His fingers were stretched, framing his eye. There was a scar on his finger tip and crow feet in the corners of his eyes. Clint could tell, that he was hiding a smile and he thought that that was mean. He had earned that smile, for Pete's sake! 

Clint curled his fingers around Bruce's wrist and pulled his hand away from his face. There was a mewling, protesting sound that did funny things to Clint's inside, but the smile was still there on Bruce's face. It was small and warm and sweet and it somehow lightened up his whole face and made him...not really younger, just...more carefree. Simple.

Clint gulped. This was just so fucking unfair. He didn't know why, but he hated Coulson in that moment. And Natasha. And most of all he hated freaking Captain America.  
Clint sat down on his hands. “You have to eat it, you know?” 

Bruce nodded and the smile was still there, when he put his feet on the bed and cradled the container close. Clint watched while Bruce put his fork into the dish and then took it back to his mouth, putting it in, closing his eyes. For a moment, Clint waited for a moan and he braced himself but it didn't come. He felt a bit cheated and didn't know why. It wasn't like WANTED to hear Bruce moan or something, but well. If Clint made porn noises around a serving of shepherd's pie, the guy could at least make SOME noises, right?

But Bruce was at least smiling. It was a small and serene smile and he cradled the container closer, like he was afraid, that someone would take it away.   
“Thank you.” Bruce looked at him and there was something in his eyes, that Clint couldn't place, but it... Clint's stomach made a little flip-flop. “No one ever made something like that for me.”  
“Christmas Tiramisu?”  
“Tiramisu. Or anything christmassy.”  
“Are your folks jewish?”  
“No.” Bruce laughed and leaned back, shrugged. “Just...very against the consumerism and how the western world is run by ancient ideas and paganism. Christmas just never had that Boom-Factor for my father.”  
Clint didn't ask about his mother. Even he did know a thing or two 'bout people. “Tree?”  
“Nope. And we lived far away from any pine tree. Or any tree at all. Or palms.”  
“That sucks, man.” And where the hell had he lived? Fucking somewhere-istan in some dessert?

Bruce shrugged and ate an other small bite, smiling around the fork. “It was how it was.”, he said and didn't answer anything with that, not offering any more information. “Did you use to have christmastrees in the circus?”  
Clint blinked, gulped and the felt how the heat was rushing to his face. What the BLOODY hell?   
No one knew about this. No one. Fuck this, what the freaking hell? No one SHOULD know about this at least. No-fucking-one! Ans now this...this...this freaking STRANGER was talking to him about it like it was nothing and -

“Hey, breathe.” Bruce put a hand on his wrist, fingers just pressing slightly. The smile on his face seemed a bit brittle. “Sorry. It's just...I told you that I liked the show before, right?”  
“Yeah...that....you really did mean....THAT ONE...huh...figures.... You do realize, that... I was freaking MASKED, alright? No one knows that that was...well, me.”  
He had to freaking breathe. No one was supposed to know or guess or...anything really.   
“Ahm...okay. Yes. You were masked.” Bruce smiled again, this time it was more real and fond. It was warming, like a good cocoa. “You were masked.”, he repeated. “But you still have the same eyes, the same jawline. You have this way of walking, when you're under pressure, you have a little, very specific swing to it. It's just...there are a lot of tells, if you look closely enough.”

Clint blinked. That was a bit creepy. Or...a lot creepy. Stalker-creepy.  
It really shouldn't make him feel fuzzy and warm and grinning. “Oh, I bet you looked real close, right?”  
He didn't know what he had expected, what he had been angling for, when he said that, but...well. What he got was Bruce blushing. It was just a faint red, creeping over his nose and he ducked his head to look somewhere else and scratched his neck.   
“...I....I guess so. You were kind of my hero, when I was young.”

Clint blinked. Again. He did that a lot around Bruce, the guy just managed to startle him all the time. He remembered that damn show: Him in a purple outfit, with a mask, someone explaining circus tricks and himself doing that shit or some stunt or something with bow an arrows, something all _him_. He had been a damn kid, knew nothing about anything. 

“Why?”

Bruce grinned. “Because you were badass.”

“Coulson thinks you're dangerous.” Clint didn't know why the fuck he had just said that. His brain was kind of short circuing. Bruce had thought him badass. Him, when he had been all in purple and not allowed to say much, had just rolls his eyes sometimes.   
Bruce shrugged, but the smile was gone and he looked down, ate another bite. Clint wanted to hit himself and Coulson.   
On the other hand... Well. This way they weren't talking 'bout any ways a guy might look at him. Well. Back then Bruce had had to be a boy too, so, well, maybe that had been just sweet. Somehow. And it wasn't like he was jumping Clint in any way. Right? Right. Bruce was into Tasha anyway. Following her around. Or he was into guys, but...well. Half ones. Like Cap. That was, what these guys went for, right? Half portions. People who looked like girls from behind. Fuck, he shouldn't say that or Bruce would be mad with him again.

He didn't want Bruce to be mad with him. Not again, not ever. He wanted him like this, smiling, blushing, looking fond. He had a freaking right for Bruce to look at him like that alright?  
 _Okay, that's it, Barton. You're losing it. Might be him. Freaking ninja-tactics. Always knew the day would come._

Bruce looked down on his plate and then he looked up again. There was earnesty in his gaze and a fondness that was...like cocoa. Warm and homey. Everything about Bruce was like that, in a way. Even that he was crazy like fuck, catching a goddamn KNIFE in his leg, but well. He made a hell of a banana pancake, so Clint wasn't going to complain. The guy was damn perfect. Well. Except for the fact, that he seemed to be into men. Or people who were – in some definition – masculine. He wouldn't call Captain America a man, not really.   
And Coulson hadn't been right. Bruce shared no physical qualities what so ever with people Clint chose to have intercourse with. No sir. Nothing. Well. Maybe... Clint did have a thing for dark hair. He was the blond one in the relationship, alright? Brown, deep eyes weren't bad either. And Bruce DID have some nice muscles, not like a bodybuilder and not like Clint, but _there_. It was a hidden sort of strenght, like a panther or something like that, dangerous and lazy and sexy, he didn't know how there were people who wouldn't go for that kind of thing and -

“Clint? You alright?”  
Bruce looked at him, squeezed his wrist. “Hey...”, he said, using a soothing tone, his eyes big and brown and caring... “You're staring at me.”  
“Whoat? No! NOOOOO! I'm not...I mean...staring, no, jeez, Brucey, get a grip, I mean, whoa, you're not that pretty, you know, I see myself in the mirror every morning, ya see?” He punched Bruce against the shoulder, hart, just so that he would stop TALKING, damnit, and there was a grin on his face, impossibly wide and hurting and forced and a bit manic, probably, and he just couldn't stop and oh Lord, this was just so, so....  
“I fucking HATE Coulson!”

Bruce blinked. Good. Clint didn't want to be the only blinker around here.   
“Is this somehow linked to...no, I don't think I want to know. You'll have your reasons.”  
“Damn right I have. He's just an asshole is all. Freaking, fucking asshole. Might lick the ground your buddy Rogers walking on, but a freaking ASS to everyone else.”  
“...Clint...don't take this the wrong way, but...” Bruce breathed in and out, scratched behind his ear. “I'm not going to run away with Steve.”  
Clint deflated. That hadn't been what he had had on his mind. Seriously! He frowned and looked away. “Look, not my cup of tea if you two wanna go for the gay joyride into the sunset. Not my business, seriously. You could feed him up. Maybe he'll grow a bit, get some muscles, start looking like something more than a stick with hair and -”

Bruce hugged him then. He was warm and smelled of earth and coconut-shampoo. His chest was broad and solid. Clint should do something against that, but he couldn't remember why exactly. He tried to get away.   
For a moment, Bruce just breathed and Clint kept himself rigid and ready to jump and run, because this was fucking dangerous. This was...what the hell? Guys didn't hug other guys just like that. You didn't hug straight guys like that. Straight guys who were totally alright, just sitting and talking, okay?

“It's okay.”, Bruce whispered against his ear. “I'm not leaving you.”  
“ 'course not.” Clint didn't want to go all placid, but he was. He was leaning against Bruce's chest and it felt okay somehow. “Have your job here, don't ya?”  
“Yeah.” Bruce smiled, Clint could feel it at his cheek. He wanted to smile back. Instead, he jumped up. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyhow....so, just, you know, keep me postet and...you know...fed. Love your food, really, you spoiled me for the other crab, so I need you, you see? Aaaanyhow, really have to go now and FUCK IT I HATE COULSON!”

He turned around and left the room at a fast pace. He did NOT flee. No, he just left very fast. He had places to be, you see?

~*~*~*

The next morning, Bruce was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in there folks. :) I know I need A LOT of time for a new chapter, but I'm trying my best here. Let me know if there are people you want to see in this FF.   
> There might be some more action in the next chapters. Some bad people, nasty stuff, explosions... Let's hope that someone can still cook something.


	5. Clean slates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is gone and Clint is not so happy about it. But there's always a way to get what you want. Not that Clint might want Bruce. No sir! No. Freaking. Way.  
> STOP GRINNING, COULSON!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaaaaaa! A new chapter. And it did just take me a couple of months. I do hope that I might get these out a bit faster. 
> 
> Thank you all for the comments and kudos. Each and every one keeps my heart warm and gooey inside, like a molten chocolate lava cake.

Gone might have been putting it mildly. Maybe Clint would have noticed something, had Bruce just packed up and left. Clint knew when people lied. He had believed him when he had told him that he wouldn't leave him. Well, it was a pretty strange thing to say and it wasn't like Clint WANTED him around. Not for anything more than good food. And, well, he was a nice guy, a good friend probably. He seemed like someone who could be a very good friend. He was NICE. Just that. And caring and he didn't take any shit and he smelled nice and was warm and CLINT WAS NOT FALLING FOR A FREAKING GUY, ALRIGHT CREEPY COULSON VOICE IN HIS HEAD???  
So, yeah, maybe Clint was taken. A bit. He was biased, he knew that but he also was really good in calling bullshit. Bruce had said, that he would be there the next morning, but he wasn't. 

Clint waited for him in the restaurant and later in front of the motel. They wanted to get back to LosAngeles, postproduction. Bruce should have been there. But he didn't come out and Clint was fidgeting and he didn't want to get inside and look for him because that would imply an unproper amount of eagerness. He didn't need to see Bruce, really not.   
Coulson stood in front of the production van, working on his Starkpad and sometimes shot him knowing looks that started to get annoying. 

Finally, he looked on his watch, sighed and that was it.   
Clint stared at him. “Hey, are you not worried? AT ALL?”  
“Nope.” He plobbed the 'p', swished and worked on. After a few moments, he looked up and rose his eyebrows. “Barton, I don't know what you two did last night, but you are both dramaqueens. Get him out of his room or stop moping.”  
Clint wanted to fucking hit him. He wanted to punch him, till he was on the floor and then use him as a trampoline. He was no freaking Diva, alright? And why the fuck was he the one who had to get one of COULSON'S staff, huh? That wasn't his job, alright? He was just...well... He wanted to know why the freaking heck Bruce wasn't coming out. Bruce should come out and...he didn't know. Maybe he should give Clint a little raspberry tart as an apology for making him wait. 

“Just go and fetch your not-boyfriend.”   
“HE'S NOT-” Clint bit his tongue and stared the man down. Coulson didn't even look at him. He just smirked. “I hate you.”, Clint said with feeling. “You're an evil, old, fat man.”  
Coulson looked down and put a hand on his belly, frowning. Then he looked up again. “I am not fat.”   
“ 'course you are. Because you are old. You're losing your hair. Soon enough you'll be bald and fat and you're not that pretty to begin with, so no one will overlook your evilness anymore.”  
Coulson frowned and then shrugged and looked back on his computer, like Clint wasn't that interesting any more. But there was that...that something on his face, the way he moved his nose just a tiny bit, how his lips thinned out...  
“Oh, there's someone you want to be pretty for, right? Someone out of your class? Maybe younger and prettier, someone who can get someone who's not fat and evil?”  
Coulson looked up. Clint gulped. There was steel in Coulson's eyes. His gaze made every word, every taunting comment disappear. Clint wanted to beg forgivness, shiver and hide himself. Well, at least that were his instincts screaming at him but he was good at ignoring the bastards as long as it was just his life on the line.   
“Barton. You might want to remember that it is totally in my power to reassign my staff to an other show. Maybe give them to Mr Rogers, who clearly is in need of a good camera man. You might also notice that the way you are trying to deflect any homosexual tendencies is childish and probably your best way of hurting people who might feel differently. You don't have that many friends, Barton and I would say it might be because of your personality.” He took a step closer and then whispered in Clint's ear. “I do know _everything_ about every person working for me. And if you insist on antagonizing me, I will find someone for Banner to fall madly in love with. Won't be that difficult, I have the perfect candidate just a phone call away.”

Clint gulped. He breathed. He wanted to tell Coulson that that would be fine, AWESOME really, because the guy could use someone to cuddle and cook for and hug and smile at. He deserved that and it would do him good. Really. Clint would cheer him on. Right after he got over the food poisoning he had caught apparently. He wanted to throw up.  
He tried to push the words out but he needed a lot of time doing so and they tasted of bile when he managed: “Great. Do that.”

Coulson looked him up and down and then sighed. “You are such a fool Barton.” He shook his head, took a step back and placed his hands in his pockets. “You know, I get being a fool over these things. I really do. But the heart wants what the heart wants. And even if you should really look for someone not that dangerous, you should not lie to yourself.”  
“ 'm not.” Clint turned around and walked over to the motel. He just couldn't stay with Coulson a moment longer. Evil, fat, old man.

He walked into the motel, rehearsing in his mind what he should say. Not much. Maybe just 'Hey pal, everyone's waiting for you, come on'. Yeah, that sounded good. Or he could try a joke, make him smile or laugh. That would be...quite...yeah..., yeah. So. Joke. He tried to think of one. What kind of joke...funny...smart....  
Every word left his mind when he opened the door and saw the room. Bruce wasn't in it but his bag was.   
_Maybe he has left without it._ Clint gulped. Bruce had promised he wouldn't leave he had said, he... He fell to his knees beside the bag, opened it, threw everything in it out. Clothes. Dried fruits.  
 _He promised, he promised, he **promised**!_  
His hands closed around a book. It was a book with magic tricks, old and used, well loved obviously. Clint opened it. It was signed - _Dear Bruce, I hope this brings the spark in your life, that you clearly deserve. Mum._. Between the pages were snippets of papers and tv-guides. It were pictures of Clint. 

“Creepy, little stalker.” He mumbled it, but it was true and it didn't scare him, funny enough. He closed the book. Bruce would have never gone without this. Probably not because of the pictures, but because of the signing. Mum. Bruce's mum and the book was so old.  
Clint looked around and then ran out of the room.  
Bruce had been taken. Bruce was gone, he needed to find him, he needed to...   
Coulson stood outside, Tasha beside him and looked up, when Clint came out of the house. He took one look at Clint and then cursed.   
He pushed his phone to his ear. “Sir. It seems like Banner's gone.”  
“Taken.”, Clint corrected while he came closer.   
“Taken. Yes. Sir, I assure you...” He waved a hand at Tasha, who nodded and then took Clint's arm, dragged him away.   
“Who's he talking to?”   
“His boss.” Tasha rolled her eyes. “And we will be looking at the security footage.”  
“What? What fucking security footage? Why is there security footage?”  
Tasha smiled.  
“WHY DIDN'T I KNOW ABOUT ANY FUCKING SECURITY FOOTAGE?”  
Tasha smiled. She was quite creepy.

She led him to a caravan. Inside were screens and laptops and a lot of beeping stuff. Clint looked around. On one of the screens he saw himself and Bruce on, how he had made him prepare Tiramisu.   
“What the...did you SPY on me? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, TASH?”  
“Don't be absurd.”  
She pushed a few buttons and then there was Bruce, sleeping beside his bed. Clint blinked. The man really slept beside his bed, turning and tossing.   
“You're not spying on me...you're spying on _him_.”  
Tasha didn't answer him. Time sped forward. Bruce opened his eyes. They were open suddenly and then he was sitting up and – and then something stuck in his neck. A dart. He tried to get it out, but he couldn't. He fell over and then men were there and took him away. He blinked and then it was over again. 

Bruce was gone. 

Tasha put a hand on his shoulder. “We'll get him back, Clint. Probably not totally unharmed, but we'll get him back.”  
“DAMN IT! FUCK YOU ALL, I AM NOT IN FUCKING LOVE WITH THE GUY! STRAIGHT! I AM FREAKING STRAIGHT SO LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!”  
He turned around and the caravan, fuming, cursing and close to throwing a tantrum.   
He walked past Coulson, who was still at the phone and past all the others, vanished into the bus, grabbed his bag and left again. 

*~*~*

No one seemed to have followed him. Clint would have been offended by the fact, that these people believed him so childish that he would throw a tantrum instead of looking for Bruce. But he had recognized the tattoos of the guys. Barney had worked for them at one point. Well. Who had Barney not worked for?  
Question was: What did a gang want with Bruce? And why were they using tranquilizers?  
Clint had decided that he didn't need to to know. He knew where their headquarters laid and that was enough. He took his bow out of the bag, looked up the wall. He would go to the roof and fight his way down. Bruce would be there on the way somewhere. 

He ignored the voice in his head that told him that he hadn't done this in a long time, that he was becoming older, that his muscles weren't what they used to be and that he might have still his aim but that a bow just wasn't the right weapon for fights in buildings. It would have been the better choice to just tell someone.   
But even though he and Barney had went different ways: There were things that would always stay the same. And a Barton NEVER talked to no cops, no sir!

Clint sneaked up on a building beside the one he wanted to get inside of. It was taller but there were no mob people inside. He reached the roof without problems and then spend some minutes, just watching the building. He could see people moving behind the windows but nothing that would send him rushing. Alright. He could do this.   
Clint breathed in and out. He tried to forget about the fact that he was becoming old, that he had a much rounder belly than he used to, that he was a chef and not a circus performer any more and that he had NEVER done anything that would lead to him being cut out for secret agent work. 

But...Brucey. He thought about the big doe eyes, his calm, bashful way of moving and talking. The guy just shouldn't be around people like that and why had they taken him in the first place?  
Because he had problems. He was running from something, it was obvious. _And the damn guy took a knife to the leg and laughed it off, so stop the bullshit. You're not going to do the freaking balcony scene. And you SURELY won't start freaking swooning over the bashful, calm way of the fucking sneaker-ninja!_  
Yeah. Well. He could kill himself after he had safed the idiot. 

Clint aimed and then shot. The arrow entered through one window behind which hadn't been any activity. He let himself breath a few more moments. He could do this. Maybe. Maaaaaybe.   
He tried to calm himself down and then he heard in his head Bruce's voice. _“You've got this, chef. I know you do. You're badass.”_  
He grinned. Hell yeah!   
Clint breathed in and out and then used the bow to sackline down to the building. Underneath him the city buzzed and he felt his blood pound in his head. Fuck. The adrenaline hit him when he tumbled over himself and pulled himself up again, right on enemy territory.   
There was a grin tugging at his mouth.   
He had his mask on. Well. Not HIS mask. Not the one, he had used all that time ago but one that actually went over his bigger face. Well. The eyes at least. It was purple and it was nice and he really should ask himself, why he had a mask with him at all time.

He sneaked out onto the floor and thought about what to do next. If he were a dumb mobster and had a soft spoken, doe-eyed camera-man, where would he put him? There were some pictures plopping up in his head. There was a room with a bed, but really, mobsters didn't give you the comfy things and sheetings that matched your hair or your awful shirts, so -   
Yeah. No. Not that one. And the kitchen where he had sat on the counter wouldn't be it either. Unless they had taken Bruce to make him cook for them. Which would have been preeeeetty intelligent but he didn't think so. Mobsters were damn stupid. Well. The ones who did abductions and stuff. 

So. No fucking lead. But maybe the cellar. All the creeps put people in the cellar.   
Clint sneaked down and then he heard someone coming closer. No place to hide himself. He cursed under his breath, looked up and then he jumped, pressed his legs and arms against the walls and kept himself there. No one used to look up, but people had seen _Alien_ too many times.  
He stayed there, looked down. A guy came in, a gun in his holster. Clint let himself fall down, beat the guy on the head. There was a soft _Uff_ and then nothing. Clint waited a moment, but he didn't move. Alright. So...what did he do with the unconscious dude?  
Clint tried a door, peeked inside the room and...yes, great. Empty. But there was a chair and rope and...yeah.....someone had given him a present here. 

Clint grinned, dragged unconscious mobster dude inside, put him on the chair and started to tie him to it. He was so concentrated on it, that he did notice the noises behind him way too late.  
He heard the soft _thumb_ of someone landing on the ground. He wanted to turn around, but an arm was around his neck and there was no air any more. He grabbed at the arm, at flesh and hair but he couldn't move the guy. There was blackness creeping into his sight and he couldn't think over the constant peeping in his ears, the pumping of his own heart and -

“Clint?”   
The arm slipped away, he could breath again and in the next moment, he was being pressed against the wall and he blinked, until he could see again, could see -  
“Bruce?”  
A nod even though he could see that it was Bruce. Bruce didn't wear a mask like Clint. But well. Bruce knew him with a mask. He had seen the show and...what exactly was happening here?  
His curls were all over the place, there was sweat on his forehead and he smelled like smoke and cinnamon. There was a smile creeping over his face. It was one of the soft, unbelieving smiles he sometimes did, the kind of smile that warmed Clint's heart. And apparently his stomach did now little turns too.   
“Did you come to rescue me?”

It _did_ sound a bit stupid, now that Bruce was standing there, free and smiling and not really worried by being kidnapped.   
“Well...”  
“Is that your _bow_?” Bruce started grinning now and his eyes were sparkling. He seemed like a little kid, that had been told, that christmas was coming early this year. His fingers caressed the bow and Clint had to avoid his gaze.   
“Ahm...yes...so....you were....rescuing yourself, as I see.”  
“Not so hard a task. They weren't informed about my....history. Normal rope, I was left alone...”  
“Aaaaand because you're superman...yadda-yadda. What was your plan?”  
“Are you... Clint, are you insulted that you couldn't dash in to rescue me like a damsel in distress?”  
“Nooooo?” He frowned and looked away, because _No fucking way, dude! No-ope!_. He crossed his arms and did something that wasn't sulking. Really, really not.   
Bruce smiled again and shook his head, put a hand on Clint's shoulder. “Normally I would love to get myself back on the chair, so you could dash in and help me, but I am afraid, that we won't have the time. We have 6 minutes and 32 seconds left.”  
“What? Till what?”  
“Till the bomb goes up.”  
“WHAT???”  
“The bomb. 6 minutes left. Come on. You can use your bow and we can sackline to the other building.”  
“What....what BOMB?” Clint trailed behind Bruce, who was opening a window and looked out, checking their surroundings. He didn't turn around for answering. “The bomb I built in their cellar. I really don't enjoy being abducted and I wished to make that clear.”

…

What. The. Actual. Fuck?!?

“You...build a bomb.”  
“Yes.”  
“In their cellar.”  
“Yes.”  
“WHITH WHAT?” That wasn't really what he wanted to ask, but that was what came out of his mouth and yeah, he was curious about that too.   
“Their ventilation system.”  
“So. Right. You are a deadly MacGuyver sneaker ninja...”  
That made Bruce look up and turn around. He was frowning. “...ahm...” And then he blushed and looked down on his feet and he seemed embarrassed now. “Sorry, I... That's not normal, right?”  
“Building bombs out of ventilation systems? Nooooooo?”  
“Sorry.” The guy was blushing again, staring at his feet. “I...I forgot that that... I mean, I... I could...disable it?”  
“Yes. Do that. Please.”  
“Alright...” He went over to the control system for the ventilation and started pushing buttons. Clint stood there, his arms crossed. He waited, till Bruce turned around and smiled at him. “There. Disabled.”  
“Good.” Clint breathed out and then hit the guy on the chair, who had started to move again.  
“That was a bit unnecessary, don't you think?”  
“REALLY? YOU BUILT A FREAKING BOMB AND YOU ARE LECTURING ME ABOU-”  
Bruce pressed a hand on his mouth. Clint glared at him, even though Bruce looked like kicked puppy. “Sorry. I am so sorry. Please. You can chew me out later, but we need to get out of here and you screaming won't help us, chef.”  
Clint glared at him some more and then pulled his fingers away from his face.   
“I expect something delicious when we get to the next motel. Something that will rock my world.”  
Bruce blinked and smiled again. This time it wasn't the warm smile he normally had for Clint but a little different. There were teeth and a shine in his eyes and Clint's knees buckled a bit.   
“Yeah. I think, I might be able to deliver that.”  
“Cocky.”  
“You wake the best in me.”  
Clint didn't know what they were doing. Was this flirting? Maybe. He couldn't be flirting with Bruce. Coulson would get ideas. Clint's libido would get ideas.   
“Hey.” Bruce put his fingers on his cheek. They stared at each other for a few endless moments. There was a sadness in his eyes but it was hard to concentrate on it with Bruce's finger so close to his mouth and somehow he wanted to see if Bruce would taste like smokey cinnamon, like he smelled. It would be just a tiny flick with his tongue. Just a tiny, tiiiiiiny...

Outside someone was shooting. Clint and Bruce looked up at the same time and Bruce was putting himself between Clint and the door. He wasn't even shaking and there was a teasing in his voice when he said: “You know what would be really good to have right now?”  
“Grenades. Don't quote Firefly on me dude.”  
Bruce laughed.   
Outside there was an other shot. Then the door opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to get an other pairing in this story. It's quite a rare one but I think that it will make sense in this verse, especially considering Brucey's and Clint's dynamic. (So glad you all seem to enjoy Brat!Clint by the way. XD )  
> There may be some hints about it in the next chapter and there'll also be some information about Bruce's past and the reasons for him being how he is. (Clint: "FREAKING INSANE!")


	6. Chocolate Chip Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint isn't that sure whether or not he hates Coulson but he surely DOES hate brats that are coming out of nowhere and eat his freaking cookies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for reading, the kudos and comments! They keep me writing and I'm dancing with glee whenever I get one. :)

Clint was waiting for Chuck Norris to get to them or maybe just the A-Team or some kind of supervillain. But what he got was Coulson, followed by Tasha. They both wore black and grey tag suits, had guns in their hands and Coulson had a shotgun on his back.

“What?” Clint looked from Coulson to Tasha and back. “WHAT???”  
“Be my guest to gape as much as you want, Barton, but do it, when we're out of here and away from the police closing in on this.”Coulson signaled them to follow him and Bruce just nodded and trailed after him, a hand closed around Clint's bicep to get him to come along. Clint just couldn't believe how everyone just seemed to accept this situation and HELL he had known that Bruce was crazy, a broken nut and Tasha would have been able to make Chuck Norris weep but why the freaking hell was Coulson there, heavily armed? 

He really just didn't get it. 

And Bruce was just accepting it, Tasha too and why did they all just hopped along, being happy and smiley?  
“What?” He needed to say it again. “What???”  
“Stop repeating yourself, Barton. You'll have time enough to scream when I spank your for this stupidity.” Coulson snorted, sounding sincere to a frightening degree.  
“You and your sexual dreams, you dirty, _dirty_ old man.”  
“Old, Barton? Really?”  
“And fat. We should never forget fat. That sweetheart of yours will surely soon get someone younger, more attractive and better smelling.”  
“I'll leave you here to rot, you little punk, you -”  
“Let's just go. Please?” Bruce put a hand on each of their backs and pushed gently. Clint shut up and let himself be pushed outside. The sneaker-ninja was good at calming him down and for the moment Clint was just thinking about it all and let the warmth of Bruces fingers seep into his skind and flesh. Maybe he could later just cuddle closer to Bruce, eat something, get himself warm and indulge himself with the smell of smokey cinnamon.

He went still in his own head, while Bruce guided them out, through halls where mobsters were lying on the ground, not moving, maybe dead. Clint wanted to cuddle with Bruce. That was...that was a dangerous thought. That was just...

That was the adrenaline. That was him, working with the fact, that he had just rescued Bruce (Close enough, shut up!) and that the guy had built a bomb. Really, he was safe and that was all, that was what Clint wanted to know. He just didn't want to see the guy hurt, alright?  
He looked over to Coulson, who shot him a smirk. 

Fuck. You. Coulson!

Clint turned his head away and started worrying his lip.  
Bruce put his finger there, when they reached the street. “You'll start bleeding.”  
“Yeah, so what? Yer not my mum.” Clint snapped and he felt the hurt, when he saw Bruce flinching. But what? That was true! And he wasn't...Bruce was just a friend! Not even that, really, they didn't know each other that well!

Coulson started to phone someone and Bruce and Clint stood there in front of the building, Natasha looming near, a gun in her hands. Clint was tired. He wanted this whole shit to end. And he wasn't...he just couldn't stop thinking about hugging Bruce while the guy was looking at him like that. And...and he shouldn't want to cuddle with him, not even if Bruce were the best looking, busty gal around. Because - “Dude, you're fucking crazy, you know that?”  
Bruce blinked. Clint drew a hand through his own hair. “FUCKING CRAZY. Most crazed up bastard I've ever met. You catch knifes with your leg, you get taken hostage and you are what? Mildly annoyed? And your reaction to that is that you fucking build a fucking BOMB in their cellar? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, DUDE? That's normal for you, ain't it? I mean, you must be the craziest guy I've met my entire life and I saw some fucked up shit!”

Bruce's face became longer and longer. There was no longer the warmth in his eyes and it wasn't his broken look either. Their was no siren call to hug him now and Clint could breath.

And then Bruce stopped looking at him, turned his head away and walked over to Coulson, who was watching them and still phoning.  
“Tell him, I'll have a badge of his cookies ready.”  
Coulson just nodded and then was back on the phone. Clint didn't know whether or not he should follow Bruce, but he didn't know what to say and so he just stayed where he was and hoped for something to change.  
“Yes, sir, I'll have everything ready for you. No...no sir, I don't think that would be advisable...no... _because I'd taser your lazy ass and bind you on the top of my car to get you back to the madhouse you call your working place!_ ”  
Clint flinched and stared at Coulson, who had red spots on his cheeks, his voice cold and more angry than he had ever heard it. Then he terminated the call and turned around to Clint.

“That was so stupid, I don't even have the words, Barton.”  
“Ahm...what?”  
Coulson shook his head and stalked passed him, murmering under his breath.

*~*~*

Clint had the feeling that he had done something bad, something wrong and he was haunting the motel, waiting for what would be happening. There was no police coming to them which was not that much of a surprise but Clint didn't like it. It implied, that someone was able to tell the coppers to leave it be. Clint had every right to feel anxious about this kind of power display.  
He looked out of his window for a long time and finally stood up to find someone to talk to, to numb the thoughts in his head. He started to get the feeling that, maybe, it wouldn't be so bad to tell Bruce to hug him till he felt better again. He was pretty sure that he would feel safe and cared for, should Bruce close his arms around him, maybe prepare something to eat. But that wasn't what Clint needed. Clint was a grown ass man who didn't need hugs to feel safe but some kind of machete or gun. And if he wanted to forget he could find someone with a nice pair of boobs and drive every thought out of his system for a while.  
He didn't need Bruce.   
Really, really not.  
It took him some time to actually find someone (the whole team seemed to hide from him). Coulson was in his own room and half dressed. He was in slacks and looking at the shirts on his bed. 

“Jeez! Put out a warning, Coulson! You hairy, fat belly might make me blind!”  
“Not fat, brat.”  
“Yes, yes, just tell that yourself. Doesn't matter which shirt you choose. Your little crush will run from your retreating hairline and the stick in your ass.”  
Coulson shot him a look that was made to melt stones. But there was something in his eyes and a tick with his lips and... Clint blinked and it was gone. 

Coulson was pulling a shirt on and then shrugged into a black jacket, put on a plumb tie.  
He looked like FBI.  
Fuck. 

“So, just what's yer deal with the food ninja? Why are you looking over him, film him, rescue him with guns like the fucking cavallery?”  
“Because that is my job.”  
“Yeeeeeeeeeah but why?” Because, just, really! Why was someone looking out for this guy? He was a freaking mutant or something like that. He surely didn't need any protection or former circus guys slash chefs to come in for the rescue.  
“Because some people seem to like Mr Banner.”  
What? WHAAAAAAAAAAT? “We all freaking like him. He's like the most likeable person on earth!”  
Coulson looked at him. Clint crossed his arms. This was just...this was freaking unfair! He didn't deserve to be looked at like that! And, well, he did like Bruce. Not like that. Not more, than anyone else would like the dude, you know? And EVERYONE would love to pet these curls. It were curls. Dark, soft curls. It was like a law of nature that you had to find these attractive.  
“Barton. You just called the guy...” Coulson was searching for words and then shrugged. “A loony. Which really was the worst thing you could do.”  
“Don't be absurd, I'm sure he gets that all the time.”

Again the look. Clint started to feel unclean, unworthy under it. He wanted to apologize and didn't really know what for.  
Coulson sighed and then straightened his clothes which really didn't need any straightening. Then he revealed a halter around his ankle and put a gun in it.  
Clint crossed his arms. “So...what exactly are you? James Bond's balding uncle? Or do you have to kill me if you tell me?”  
“I am a former army ranger, then I worked as a security detail and a lot of my former work really is classified. I know a lot of ways to kill you but you have the luck that I also have the strenght to just let you walk away and be your annoying self.”

He blinked. Yeah. Course. He probably didn't want to know what Natasha was or had worked for before. Or ANYONE on his team. “So...why are you here, working on a reality show?”  
“Because I am paid to do that.”  
“Because you're keeping an eye on Bruce.”  
Coulson didn't react to that but it he didn't need to. Clint knew that he was right, he just didn't know _why_.  
His boss (Was he his boss? Truly? Could the guy fire him or was that a ruse too?) ignored him and got out of the room, onto the street. Clint trailed behind him and then stood there by the side of the street. Coulson had put on shades, had his hands strategically over his crotch and looked like part of the MIB. Clint wanted to get a stick and poke him.  
“Try it, Barton, and I will make you scream.”  
“Sadly you are neither my type nor up to the task.”  
“It's quite interesting how your homophobia seems to be nonexistent with me.”  
“First of all: You're as gay as Bill Clinton at the playboy mansion.”  
Coulson snorted.  
“And secondly I'm not a fucking homophobe. I am just not gay.”  
“So you're just an asshole with Banner because you are in love with him? How very second grade of you.”  
“I AM NOT IN FREAKING LOVE WITH BRUCE! NOT. FUCKING. GAY!” 

Coulson cleaned his ear. Clint HATED the guy! Why was it so freaking hard to accept, that Clint wasn't gay and surely wasn't in love with a dark curled, cooking ninja? He was crazy! He just made good food, for fuck's sake!  
Clint was fuming with it, crossed his arms and was close to just beat it out of the guy. 

Coulson ignored him and took one look at the watch around his wrist. Clint decided to get himself ready to just scream at the guy until he was deaf.

Mr MIB was rescued by the big black limo closing in. 

The car seemed to be worth more than Clints flat, so he watched it and when it stopped in front of the motel, Clint decided, that he probably should go inside, grab Bruce and make a run for it.  
A man and a woman were getting out of the car. The woman was gorgeous in a...perky kind of way. She was strawberry blonde, very thin and wore a costume that probably cost more than Clint's first car. Virginia Potts. The woman who had interviewed him and offered him _Kitchen Nightmares_. The man beside her was Tony Stark. Tony Stark, the billionaire. Tony Stark, the guy who owned their fucking channel.

Clint would have loved to have Potts as a director. But well. He had gotten a bunch of idiots, until, one day, she had presented Coulson to him and Coulson had been okay till now. Still not a gorgeous woman, but at least not a total idiot. And somehow, Coulson had been able to ignore everything that Clint had tried to chase him away. He had learn to respect the man for that. Now that he was thinking about it....had she chosen a veteran to keep him in line? That was a bit...offending.

Potts was smiling and Coulson took of his glasses, smiled back. He didn't look that happy. His gaze was wandering to Stark, whose eyes were hidden behind his shades.  
Strawberry came closer pretty fast on her heels and then she leaned forward and kissed Coulson on the lips. “Darling.”  
“Good to see you too, Pepper.” Coulson smiled at her, true affection in his eyes and Clint was a bit mindboggled for a moment. He had always thought that Coulson was kind of asexual or the daddy of five kids, with a fat italian wife. Yeah, that was how he imagined Coulson's private life: A fat – well, maybe not fat...more like a hobbit – italian wife, that made him big bowls of pasta and told him that a belly made him more manly and handsome. Which would have been a blatant but nice lie and everyone involved would know it.  
He surely had not imagined him to be with Virgina Potts. The ex-girlfriend of Tony Stark. Who was Coulson's boss. What kind of freaking soap opera was this?

“Andy.”, Stark nodded at Coulson, whose lips turned down but didn't say anything to that.  
Potts frowned at Stark. “His name is Phil, Tony. You should know that by now.”  
“Why? You are the one who married him, not me.”  
“Lucky me.” She put another kiss on Coulson's cheek and then turned around to offer Clint her hand. “Mr Barton. A pleasure to meet you again.”  
“Yeah...likewise...” He looked from Potts to Coulson and back. Married, but they had kept their last names. That was...strange. It was strange, wasn't it? “You guys really are married?” He looked to Coulson and grinned. “Well. I kinda understand now, why you were so nervous and grooming yourself all the way.”  
There was a hint of red on Coulson's cheeks and Potts blinked, looked at Coulson, who answered with a raised eyebrow. “Isn't that sweet...” She kissed his cheek again, put a hand on his back, rubbed small circles there. 

“Yes, yes, yes, you are awfully sweet, in love, you'll have semi hot monkey sex I am not allowed to film later on. Potts 2, I was promised cookies, tell me where to go.”  
“Mr Banner is in his room. I am sure you will find the door open, sir. At least, should you be able to navigate inside a motel. The fact that you are unable to remember my name leads me to believe that the capacity of your brain has been highly overrated.”  
“I do hope that you got yourself sterilized. Any offspring sired by you would be ugly and boring to the point of disaster. Thank you and good night!” Stark sauntered passed Clint without taking any notice of him and went inside the motel.

Clint opened his mouth, closed it and looked down, worrying his lip. Something in his stomach was clenching and unclenching. He wanted to puke.  
“What exactly was that?”  
“That”, said Coulson and put a hand on Clint's shoulder. “would be Mr Banner's boyfriend. How lucky that you aren't in love with him, hm?”

*~*~*

Clint really didn't know what he was doing here. He had broken into the surveillance van and switched on the whole equipment. The screens showed him Bruce's motel room. Bruce and Stark were sitting on Bruce's bed. Bruce was leaning against Stark's chest, cradling his arm close. They were watching something on a laptop, Stark was eating cookies (that Bruce had made so they had to be freaking delicious) and pressing kisses on these curls. Sometimes they shared a smile or whispered to each other. They both were barefooted and sometimes their toes touched.  
He felt the presence beside him but took his time, before he turned his head and looked at Coulson. The man's lips were thinned and he watched Bruce and Stark for a short moment, before he turned to Clint. 

“I would highly advice you to stop spying on my and your employer, Barton.”  
“Why didn't you just tell me that...” He couldn't end this sentence. He felt cold and lonely and he tried to not think about the way that Bruce smelled or the warmth he radiated, the way he had looked at Clint sometimes. “I mean...with warning me off all the time, wouldn't that have been easier?”  
Coulson didn't answer. He just pushed a button and the screens went dark. 

“And Bruce could get someone better, don't you think? I mean, if you can score Virginia Potts, than he could have...” Clint searched his mind for someone gay people might go for and he only came up with Bruce's face so he shrugged. “I don't know. Edward Norton, Eric Bana, someone like that.”  
“I don't think they would be his type.”  
“What is his type then?”  
“Brats, apparently.” Coulson sat down on one of the ugly, uncomfortable chairs and put his chin on one hand. “And I can reassure you, that Mr Stark isn't half as bad as he seems to be.”  
“He can't even remember your name. How long have you worked for him?”  
“The better part of 3 years.”  
“Maybe you should get some nice boobs and red lipstick then. Might help.”

Coulson sighed and closed his eyes, massaged his temple like he was fighting the beginning of a migraine. “Clint”, he said and the use of his first name made him still and frightened, “I am here to offer you companionship and help, someone to talk to. This”, he gestured at the black screens, “is surely hurting you. So I am here, should you want to go for pizza, bad movies or just talk.”

It was an honest enough offer, Clint could tell. And he knew that he should be annoyed by being 'in love with Bruce' again, because that wasn't true but he was deeply tired, tired to the bones, really. He felt lonely already. Bruce had promised that he wouldn't go but it did look like he would be going with boyfriend. Why not? Rich guy who clearly adored him and liked his foot. They would live happily ever after, no need for Clint. He would still have Tasha and Coulson, right? 

Well, maybe not. If they were bodyguards for Stark's eye candy than they would probably get a new assignment. So...no one left. 

So instead of yelling at Coulson and telling him that he wasn't gay or in love with Bruce, he just hugged his legs and glared at him, like it was all his fault. He didn't want to seem as lonely and powerless as he felt. Angry was always better. POUTING was better. “He promised.”, he said. “He fucking PROMISED that he wouldn't leave!”  
Coulson just looked at him. “Maybe you should tell him, that you want him to stay.”  
“He KNOWS that! Why else would he promise such a thing?”  
“The only thing he knows for sure is, that you think him crazy, abnormal and are afraid of any kind of intimacy with him.”  
“Bullshit.”

Coulson didn't answer and Clint just stared at the black screens, waiting for the dread in his heart to disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Not so much about Brucey's past. Maybe that will come in the next chapter, if Clint finally grows some balls and just demands answers. Coulson might give him a pep talk for that.


	7. A burnt mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...this is the sad chapter. The one with feelings and stuff. And mean onions.

Bruce was gone the next day. Again. But this time there wasn't any chance that he had been snatched against will. There would be no rescue this time. Clint had seen Bruce getting into the limo of Stark. He had seen it over the cameras. He had wanted to run outside, he had wanted to scream and punch Stark for stealing his sneaker ninja. But he just sat there, moping and feeling the dread inside his belly grow and consume him. Clint really shouldn't be that surprised though. He had been left by pretty much everyone in his life. Why would Bruce be any better than his parents or his foster parents or his brother?  
Well, that probably wasn't fair on Bruce. Why should he want to stay with Clint? Clint was a brat and all he had going for himself were his circus skills and his cooking. Bruce cooked damn good himself and he was so badass that he probably wasn't in awe by Clint being able to do flick flacks. 

Bruce had left a letter for Clint with Coulson. It was a thick thing and Clint thought about just burning it. There was nothing that could be on these pages that could excuse Bruce just sneaking away in the middle of the night. If he wanted to elope with his stupid boyfriend and raise stupid cockerspaniels that they would get out of a shelter and put them in golden collars be freaking perfect while stupid Tony Stark who already has everything now just gets his own personal chef too, that...well, that wasn't a real sentence any more. Clint didn't know how to end it. He just thought about Bruce and Stark and puppies and he was _pissed_.  
Clint sat in front of the oven and turned the letter in his hands. He just waited for the anger to work up enough, so he could throw the freaking letter into the fire and watch it burn to coal and ash. It just didn't come. There was just this cold lump inside of his belly. After a while he noticed that he was crying. It were probably the onions. Right. That was all, because there was no chance of it being anything else. He stretched his arm, so no tears were falling on the paper. It was just that it was smelling of cinnamon and maybe Bruce would come back to get it back and then there shouldn't be any tear strains on it. And maybe Clint would smack it into the smug face of the bastard and then it being wet would make it softer.

After a while a hand landed on his shoulder. It was a cold hand, the fingers so long and delicate and soft. The smell of paint and wood hit him a moment later. “I've got vodka.” was all that Tasha said. Clint nodded and stood up, let himself being shepherded back to her room. “I am not crying.”, he said.  
“Of course not. It's the onions, I smell it too.”  
“Damn bastards.”  
“Could just kill them.”  
“Naw. Poor onions.”  
“You like onions.”  
“Still. Bastards.”  
“Damned ones.”  
They drank until Clint just passed out across of Tasha. When he woke up the next morning, he grabbed her close and just hugged her, breather her in until the last traces of the onions were gone.

Tasha patted his hands. After a while she stirred, made herself relax. “We could have Sex.”, she said. “We would be good, I think.”  
“I think so too.” He did. He thought about it again. He felt safe with Tasha and understood. They were both broken and hardened by it. They dealt differently. Tasha had become hard and cold to the outside, while Clint just laughed it off, was the clown.  
So yes. Clint thought they could be good together. He thought the sex would be amazing and he had lusted after Tasha like every red blooded heterosexual man would. Like 80% of gay men would.

“I should go now.” 

Tasha didn't hold onto him, when he sat up. She just looked up at him. She was like a gorgeous model, perfection with big eyes. He understood one thing then: Tasha would sleep with him, be with him. It would be good. They would both like it. But she didn't care either way. There was no need behind it, not for her.  
Clint smiled at her and went. 

*~*~*

Tasha and Coulson both stayed. Clint waited for them to leave, but they didn't. Tasha would be there for cuddles in front of the TV and Clint would go to Coulson's room when they were on the road. In the beginning they didn't speak. Clint just glared at Coulson, not even sure why he was there. There were moments when he thought that Coulson would just explain to him what was happening, that he would tell him exactly what to do and that then it would be good. There were other times, when he was close to ask Coulson to get Bruce back.

But he never did and after a while they just started talking. Coulson really loved reality TV and Clint mocked him for it. Most of the times they discussed the latest episode of Dog Cops or they told each other childhood stories. Clint waited for the story about how he and Potts had met but it wasn't offered. Phil told him about the boyscouts and the rangers and how he had corrected the spelling of his teachers all the time. He never mentioned any girlfriends, which was fine by Clint. He didn't want to hear about Phil (he somehow had become Phil) being a sexual being. But he did wonder. And well. Clint had never been one for patience or boundaries or that crap.

“So.”, he said one evening after they had just rescued a curry place and Clint just really needed something different to think about, “How did you and Miss Potts meet? I mean...jeez, is she Miss Potts? Mrs Coulson-Potts?”  
“Miss Potts. Mrs Something would imply her defining herself over her husband.”  
“You.”  
“Me, Barton, yes.” Phil's eyes twinkled. He leaned back and looked him up and down, took a sip of his beer. “You're wondering how a fat, balding guy like me got a beautiful wife?”  
“It's not like yer character would make up for that.”  
“Thanks for that, Barton.” Phil shook his head and then shrugged. “Well. We actually met via my sister. Maria and Pepper were in the same spinning class, Pepper got invited to Marias birthday party and the rest is history.”  
“What? Was your first kiss a result of spin-a-bottle?”  
Phil smiled. “No. But we became friends that night. And the rest of the story is not for you to hear, Barton.”  
Clint wanted to say that it so _was_ his business but then someone was screaming outside.

“LEO!”

Coulson rolled his eyes. “That would be me.”  
“Your name's Leo?”  
“No. But my boss doesn't care about that. Leo seems to be the name of the day.”  
“LEEEEEEEEEEEEEEO!”  
“Should we go and get him?”  
“I'm still hoping that he might get bored and go away.”  
Clint was hoping that too. The boss. That would be Stark. Clint still wasn't sure that he wouldn't strangle the dude. He had STOLEN Bruce! Bruce had been his and... And then Clint had done something wrong and Bruce had told Coulson to tell Stark to come. Bruce had gone because Clint had said that he was a loony which was a shitty thing to do. Bruce KNEW that he was crazy! He _had_ to fucking know that! It was like Clint would run because people told him that he was being a baby about something. He was difficult, he knew that, but he was a culinary genius and had the right to be egocentric, fuck you!

“Leo, what the freaking – oh.” Stark stood in the doorway and blinked at Clint. “You have company.”  
“Sometimes even I can manage that, sir.” Phil smiled amiably at Stark. “What can I do for you this time? Considering that it is my spare time and my hotel room and you should be half way across the country running your company.”  
“As should you.”  
“Run your company? Not quite, I hope. Forgetting about that promotion would put me behind my paperwork a great deal.”  
“Be across the country, smarty pants. You're not in shape enough to put on smarty pants, Scott.”  
“Hey!” Clint interjected and stared at Stark with his stupid goatee and his big mouth and the way he hold himself like he was a freaking present to mankind. Stark looked at him and rose an eyebrow. “Phil's in great shape. Have you seen him in a tag suit lately?” 

Phil blinked and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Clint poked his tongue at him. “What can I say, _sir_? You're hot. Daddy kink material.” Well. Clint didn't have that kind of kink and yeah, he told Phil a lot that he was fat and everything but he was _cute_ while he did it. Fucking Stark was just being an asshole.  
“That's what gets Pepper going? I was wandering about it. So I was too young and good looking for her. That explains a lot!”  
“No, you had other problems, Stark and you know that. You are too intelligent to not notice when you fuck up and how you fucked up.” Phil and Stark stared at each other for a moment. Clint waited for one of them to just shoot the other one.  
Finally it was Stark who looked away. “You haven't come back.”

“Back to New York I take it. Yes. Because we are in the middle of shooting. This is the job you are paying me for.”  
Stark blinked. “Yes, but...that was just till... You know! It's not important anymore! It's just some stupid reality series, no one even likes this stuff!”  
Clint snorted. Seriously. The guy knew NOTHING about Coulson, right? Or Bruce.  
Phil didn't say anything, but his face had gone cold. If Phil wanted to bury Stark, Clint would help him. How DARE Stark say something like that? Like it was just something dumb and worthwhile doing? Coulson put so much damn heart and sweat into it, that this was just blasphemy.  
“I am doing a good job here, Mr Stark.”  
“Of course you do, you're the freaking tin soldier who could!” Stark waved it away like that didn't mean anything. “But it's not what I am paying you to do, so -”  
“It actually is.” Phil smiled at Tony now. “Of course you don't know that, because Pepper is signing my contracts. I got a new one when no one was able to tell how long it would take for Mr Banner to join and then want to meet you. Unless you need me to hold Banner's hand, I'll stay right where I am. I like it. The company is nice.”  
Stark blinked. Then he blinked again, looked at Clint (who was grinning like a maniac because Phil was putting this guy into his place like it SHOULD be, booyah!) and then he managed to get that arrogant smirk back. Maybe Clint should cut it out of his face, so this wouldn't be such a recurring problem. 

“Sure. Whatever you want, director. I'll let Pepper know that it's not my fault, that she's not seeing you that much and that you're getting out of shape on top of that. I'll find someone else for security.”  
“May the Lord have mercy on their souls.”  
“Didn't take you for a religious person.”  
“The hope of some kind of after live without you in it is all that keeps me going some days.”  
“Baby, I am gonna rock heaven! And defile Miss Mary, while I am up there. Saints are boring, Andy. Even though I suppose you would fit right in and still be considered a party pooper.”

He waved a hand at them and then left the room, a whirlwind come and gone. Coulson sipped his beer. He looked tired and a lot older than before.

“You know what I don't get?”, Clint asked, finishing his beer of. “If the guy can't even bother to remember your name, why's he out here himself to tell you to quit a show he obviously has no interest in at all?”  
Silence. After a while, Phil shrugged. “The ways of Stark are mysterious.”  
“And creepy.”  
“I am glad as long as they aren't illegal.”  
Clint laughed. They finished of a few more beers and Clint didn't feel quite as empty anymore. At least this he could keep a bit longer. Phil and Tasha and the show. At least that he hadn't fucked up yet.

*~*~*

Clint was bored out of his mind. He also wasn't so sure anymore about him being really, really not gay.  
The season was finished, Clint was back at New York in his little Apartment. He tried new recipes, he worked at his restaurant. He wasn't unbusy, but he went through the motions and he knew, that Bruce was somewhere in this city and he caught himself looking at the ground, searching for the neon trainers. When he slept, he was hugging a pillow close he had put cinnamon and curry on. He dreamed of Bruce. He dreamed of his smiles and his promises to not leave him and then he remembered that smile that Bruce had given him when Clint had not quite rescued him. The one with teeth and that strange kind of darkness in his eyes.  
Sometimes the dream went further. Bruce was pressing him against the wall, his fingers on Clint's cheek and this time Clint followed his gut and turned his head a bit, licked over Bruce's fingers and then sucked two of them in, tasted them nibbled on them. They tasted like sweat and christmas and Bruce was burying his other hand in his hair and tucked and he made this noise like he was eating something really good.  
Clint always woke up sad and hard.

It took him a few weeks, till he just... He couldn't take it any more. He needed to talk with someone, he needed to get back his peace of mind, he needed to get over this shit, he needed to scream at someone.  
Phil would be able to take that. So Clint used the underground and then entered an anonymous looking apartment building. When he got to the right flour, he smelled something burning. The smell became stronger the closer he got Coulson's door. He started thinking about turning around and going away but then he heard someone curse behind the door and kicking or punching something. Probably the wall or some desk. 

Clint pushed the bell and then waited. When Coulson opened the door, there were clouds of smoke coming out and Coulson stood there in denims and a beat up shirt, looking tired and angry and ready to kill.

“Oh.” He blinked and took a step back. “I didn't expect you.”  
“Yeah, well. The firefighters would be a better match, I suppose. What did you do?” Clint didn't wait to be invited in, he just entered, looked around and then saw that the smoke was coming out of the kitchen of all places. He sighed. “Oh, Coulson... You know, you can't cook shit. I saw you destroying kitchens with a TV dinner. Why did you do that and how come that this apartment is still standing?”

Coulson being unable to cook an egg was legendary. He destroyed kitchens. He was so bad at these things that it wasn't even remotely funny anymore and that he had tried to cook something was scaring Clint. He looked around. Huh. It was all grey in grey and DvDs on the wall. There was nothing that reminded Clint of Miss Potts at all. He could see the bedroom through an open door and the bed was just wide enough for one person.  
Clint frowned. Coulson closed the door and let himself fall down on the couch. “What do you want, Barton?”  
He didn't answer but went into the kitchen. There were charcoals in the oven and flower and cups and eggshells on the counter. There even was some rough dough on the ceiling and looked like it was close to putting mold on.  
“Were these supposed to become chocolate chip cookies?”, he asked. That seemed kind of important.  
Coulson didn't answer. When Clint looked at him, he seemed just tired and beaten. He looked older than he had ever done before. Maybe that was Coulson like he always was, just under that mask he put on, being competent and cold.  
Clint sat down beside him and didn't say anything. He really didn't know what to say. Chocolate Chip Cookies. CCC. Like Bruce had made for Stark. Stark who didn't even remember Coulson's first name, who was obnoxious and arrogant and butted heads with Phil every second they were together. 

“You're not fat.”, Clint said finally.  
“I'm starting to sport a belly.”  
“Yeah, well, everyone in your age -” Clint bit his lip. “Sorry.”  
“It's alright. I'm closing in on fifty. My hairline is receding. My greatest hobbie resolve around reality TV. I am not what people might call fun. I am... I was in the boyscouts, than with the rangers. I am a sucker for rules. I am...I am boring. And old. And I really have never been that attractive to start with.”  
“You're kind, you're organized, you're safe and you're always in control. You've got daddykink written all over you.”  
“You already said that once.”  
“Yeah. Am I wrong? You're opposed to spanking Stark?”

Silence. It was cutting. Clint was shrinking into himself. That had been a low blow and he hadn't meant it. _YOU ARE FREAKING STUPID, BARTON!_ Yeah, yeah, he knew that... _Look at that guy! He's pining away, he's the goddamn hero of some stupid Austen novel! Lovesick like a puppy in the rain. He's trying to COOK! That's like you trying to get a doctorate in physics. Apart from the fact that Coulson cooking is a freaking health hazard!_  
He was afraid, that his boss would spank HIM now or just throw him through the window. And then Coulson laughed. It was a small, broken sound and Clint was glad, when it stopped. Coulson pushed his shoulder. “Don't look like I'm going to eat you, Barton. It is what it is. And I know what I am and what Stark is.”  
“An obnoxious prick.”  
“A good man at heart. And someone who tries to hide that very hard.”  
Clint didn't believe in that and snorted.  
“He has very good taste in books.”  
Clint didn't quite believe, that Stark even knew how to read.  
“And he has a chest I could bite bits out of.”

 _WHAT????_ “Ah.....hnagf?”

Phil smiled and didn't say anything any more. He looked more content, more calm again. Maybe it was his mask slipping back on.  
“What about Miss Potts?”  
“We've been friends forever. When she broke it off with Anthony, he didn't take it well. I was... I was there to tell him, that it really was over and then I ended up with having a job offered. I needed that job. And here we are, years later. Peppers actual husband knows that I am as gay as they come, so at least there's no problem.”  
“You don't seem gay.” He didn't. He didn't wear bright colors, he was calm and stong and everyone respected him. He wasn't a sissy. Even though he loved Supernanny, the guy just...he was the classy _man_ , alright? People would never call the guy a sissy. He was the kind of man you wanted to give you orders.  
“This may come as a surprise to you, Barton, but being gay does not make you less a man. Being into just one man doesn't make you more part of the Village People.”  
Clint blushed. He knew that! Fuck this shit, it wasn't like.. He wasn't an idiot, okay? Just... Well. Not the point. 

“Banner is your exception, Clint.”  
“He has dark curls.” That wasn't what he should be saying to that, but it was the truth and it was freaking unfair, because it were DARK CURLS! And they were soft and smelled like smoke and cinnamon and curry and Clint could put his nose in there, because Bruce was just that tad bit smaller than Clint.  
“He adores you.” Phil shrugged. “That's what's doing it for you, I think. You can't fuck it up. No matter what you say, he'll still love you.”  
“I think I blew it with me calling him crazy. Even though he is. Crazy. Like a rat on cocain. And he's with your crush now, isn't he? You called Stark his boyfriend.”  
“It didn't make him love you less. It just made him think, that you doesn't want him close. I think he went, so he wouldn't inconvenience you any more.”  
“I dream about sucking his fingers.”  
“You have no filters at all, do you?”  
“You can talk about biting Stark's chest, I can talk about sucking Bruce's fingers. Which does not make me a fagot. It are just damn fine fingers.”  
“On behalf of the World's Fagots United I take notice of that.” Coulson smiled at him, then he stood up, got two bottles of beer and gave one to Clint. They drank and sat and listened to the silence. Apparently they could just talk with a lot of silence and pauses. Clint kind of liked it. It gave him time to think and digest. 

“I was angry at that time.”, Phil finally said. “They are both very dear to one another, very important, but... Stark isn't gay. He had so many affairs but never with a man. I saw him kiss pretty much every pretty girl that came his way but never a guy.”  
“Bruce can be everyone's exception. He has curls.”  
Phil put a hand on his own, thin, brownish hair. “Yes. Thick, dark hair is very appealing to everyone. Still. You know what happened to Stark 15 years back?”  
Everyone knew that. So Clint just rose his eyebrows. Stark had been taken by some terrorists in some desert. He had been in captivity for the better part of six months and when he had managed to get out the whole thing had exploded behind him. It was common knowledge.  
“That was, when he met Banner.”  
Clint blinked. “Was Brucey travelling the desert or what?”  
“No. He was the son of the leader of the terrorists.”  
The people who didn't do christmas. Yeah. Sure thing. Clint made a face. He couldn't see Brucey being in any kind of violent organization. On the other hand... He had thought that a bomb would be the way to go, right? It had been so natural for him. 

“Apparently Banner Sr had used his son's genius to create new ways of warfare. He wanted weapons too and that was why he captured Anthony. He ordered him to teach his son how to do this. Banner was 15 back then and Anthony was 27. As he put it: He had never met someone so dangerous, so innocent and so brilliant. They bonded, as it seems. They watched DVDs of your show with the bow and Banner made him these freaking cookies when he started to miss America. When Banner Sr wanted to kill Anthony, Banner freed him and made sure that they wouldn't follow. He himself vanished after that and Anthony has since tried to find him. It became his obsession. But he was with Pepper in the meantime. I don't think that his relationship with Banner is amorous. Like I said: He's straight.”

“I thought Bruce would be older than 30. He looks older.”  
“Really Barton? That's what you're getting out of this?”  
“Bruce is dangerous, yeah, I know. You told me. And I do happen to know that the guy is crazy like shit. Explains a lot, but I don't care.”  
Phil snorted and continued nursing his beer.  
After a while, Clint stood up. “No more cooking, Phil. Seriously. This is dangerous shit.”  
The man smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. 

They didn't say goodbye and Clint didn't went home. He went to look for a range that was still open, the one he had used a few years before and when he found it, he lost himself in the repeating, calming motions that came with shooting. He stood there for hours, till his mind was totally blank and he couldn't lift his arms for the live of him. He smiled. He knew what he would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to put the ages right: In this fic, Bruce is 30, Clint 28, Phil 47 and Tony is 42. I don't care how old Pepper is and I am too afraid to ask Natasha for her age.


End file.
